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l>ee  page  333 
BUT     NOW     HE     HEARD     A     VOICE     ABOVE     HIM.       IT    WAS     HER    VOICE 


NORTHERN  LIGHTS 


BY 


^^GILBERT     PARKER,/?*^. 

Hi 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK    AND   LONDON 

MCMIX 


N(o7 


Books  by 
GILBERT     PARKER 

Northern  Lights.    Illustrated.     .    .  Post  8vo  $1.50 

The  Weavers.    Illustrated Post  8vo    1.50 

The  Right  of  Way.    Illustrated  .    .  Post  8vo    1.50 

A  Ladder  of  Swords.    Illustrated    .  PostSvo    1.50 


Pierre  and  His  People. 
Mrs.  Falchion. 
The  Trespasser. 
The   Translation   of  a 

Savage. 
The  Trail  of  the  Sword. 
When  Valmond  Came  to 

PONTIAC. 

An  Adventurer  of  the 

North. 
The    Seats    of    the 

Mighty. 

Embers  (Private 


The  Pomp  of  the  Lavi- 
lettes. 

The    Battle   of    the 
Strong. 

The  Lane  that  IIad  No 
Turning. 

Donovan  Pasha. 

Old  Quebec  (In collabora- 
tion with  C.  G.  Bryan). 

Round   the  Compass  in 
Australia. 

A  Lover's  Diary. 
Publication  only). 


Copyright,  igog,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

W//  ri^^hts  reserved. 

Published  September,  igog. 


TO 
ISHBEL,   COUNTESS   OF   ABERDEEN 

A    TRUE     FRIEND 
OF    THE    GREAT     DOMINION 


NOTE 

The  tales  in  this  book  belong  to  two  different  epochs 
in  the  life  of  the  Far  West.  The  first  five  are  reminiscent 
of  "border  days  and  deeds" — of  days  before  the  great 
railway  was  built  which  changed  a  waste  into  a  fertile 
field  of  civilization.  The  remaining  stories  cover  the 
period  passed  since  the  Royal  Northwest  Mounted  Po- 
lice and  the  Pullman  Car  first  startled  the  early  pioneer, 
and  sent  him  into  the  land  of  the  farther  North  or  drew 
him  into  the  quiet  circle  of  civic  routine  and  humdrum 
occupation. 

G.  P. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Lodge  in  the  Wilderness i 

Once  at  Red  Man's  River 21 

The  Stroke  op  the  Hour 38 

Buckmaster's  Boy 57 

To-Morrow 72 

Qu'appelle 94 

The  Stake  and  the  Plumb-Line 118 

When  the  Swallows  Homeward  Fly 160 

George's  Wife 174 

Marcile 196 

A  Man,  a  Famine,  and  a  Heathen  Boy 216 

The  Healing  Springs  and  the  Pioneers 234 

The  Little  Widow  of  Jansen 253 

Watching  the  Rise  of  Orion 272 

The  Error  op  the  Day 295 

The  Whisperer 314 

As  Deep  as  the  Sea 334 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

BUT    NOW    HE    HEARD    A    VOICE    ABOVE    HIM.       IT    WAS 

HER  VOICE Frontispiece 

THE    BIRD    SHE    HEARD    IN    THE    NIGHT    WAS     CALLING 

IN   HIS    EARS    NOW.       .       .              Facing  p.     14 

THE    START    ON    THE    NORTH    TRAIL "  36 

SHE    SWAYED    AND    FELL    FAINTING    AT    THE    FEET    OF 

ba'tiste "  56 

LITTLE  BY  LITTLE  THEY  DREW  TO  THE  EDGE  OP  THE 

ROCK "  -JO 

"they    SHOT    AT    ME    AN'    HURT    ME  " "  74 

"PAULINE,"    HE    SAID,    FEEBLY,    AND    FAINTED    IN    HER 

ARMS "  114 

SHE  KEPT  TURNING  STEADILY,  SINGING  TO  HERSELF  "  I42 
THE    OLD    MAN    SHOOK    HIS    HEAD,    THOUGH    NOT    WITH 

UNDERSTANDING "  166 

GEORGE'S    WIFE "  184 

THEN   HAD  HAPPENED  THE   REAL  EVENT   OF   HIS   LIFE  .  "  19S 

THE    FAITH    HEALER "  236 

"as  PURTY  a   woman,  TOO AS  PURTY  AND  STRAIGHT 

BEWHILES" "  256 

"  IF    YOU   KILL  ME,   YOU  WILL    NEVER   GET  AWAY  FROM 

KOWATIN    alive" "  312 

FOR    MINUTES    THE    STRUGGLE    CONTINUED      ....  "  332 

"OH,    isn't    IT    ALL    WORTH    LIVING?"    SHE    SAID       .       .  "  342 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 


NORTHERN     LIGHTS 


A  LODGE   IN   THE   WILDERNESS 

"Hai-yai,  so  bright  a  day,  so  clear!"  said  Mitiahwe 
as  she  entered  the  big  lodge  and  laid  upon  a  wide,  low- 
couch,  covered  with  soft  skins,  the  fur  of  a  grizzly  which 
had  fallen  to  her  man's  rifle.  "  Hai-yai,  I  wish  it  would 
last  forever — so  sweet!"  she  added,  smoothing  the  fur 
lingeringly  and  showing  her  teeth  in  a  smile. 

"  There  will  come  a  great  storm,  Mitiahwe.  See,  the 
birds  go  south  so  soon,"  responded  a  deep  voice  from  a 
corner  by  the  doorway. 

The  young  Indian  wife  turned  quickly,  and,  in  a  de- 
fiant, fantastic  mood — or  was  it  the  inward  cry  against 
an  impending  fate,  the  tragic  future  of  those  who  will 
not  see,  because  to  see  is  to  suffer  ? — she  made  some 
quaint,  odd  motions  of  the  body  which  belonged  to  a 
mysterious  dance  of  her  tribe,  and,  with  flashing  eyes, 
challenged  the  comely  old  woman  seated  on  a  pile  of 
deer-skins. 

"It  is  morning,  and  the  day  will  last  forever,"  she 
said,  nonchalantly,  but  her  eyes  suddenly  took  on  a 
far-away  look,  half  apprehensive,  half  wondering.  The 
birds  were  indeed  going  south  very  soon,  yet  had  there 
ever  been  so  exquisite  an  autumn  as  this,  had  her  man 
ever  had  so  wonderful  a  trade,  her  man  with  the  brown 
hair,  blue  eyes,  and  fair,  strong  face? 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"  The  birds  go  south,  but  the  hunters  and  buffalo  still 
go  north,"  Mitiahwe  urged,  searchingly,  looking  hard  at 
her  mother — Oanita,  the  Swift  Wing. 

"  My  dream  said  that  the  winter  will  be  dark  and 
lonely,  that  the  ice  will  be  thick,  the  snow  deep,  and 
that  many  hearts  will  be  sick  because  of  the  black  days 
and  the  hunger  that  sickens  the  heart,"  answered  Swift 
Wing. 

Mitiahwe  looked  into  Swift  Wing's  dark  eyes,  and  an 
anger  came  upon  her.  "The  hearts  of  cowards  will 
freeze,"  she  rejoined,  "and  to  those  that  will  not  see 
the  sun  the  world  will  be  dark,"  she  added.  Then  sud- 
denly she  remembered  to  whom  she  was  speaking,  and 
a  flood  of  feeling  ran  through  her;  for  Swift  Wing  had 
cherished  her  like  a  fledgling  in  the  nest  till  her  young 
white  man  came  from  "down  East."  Her  heart  had 
leaped  up  at  sight  of  him,  and  she  had  turned  to  him 
from  all  the  young  men  of  her  tribe,  waiting  in  a  kind 
of  mist  till  he,  at  last,  had  spoken  to  her  mother,  and 
then  one  evening,  her  shawl  over  her  head,  she  had  come 
along  to  his  lodge. 

A  thousand  times  as  the  four  years  passed  by  she 
had  thought  how  good  it  was  that  she  had  become  his 
"wife — the  young  white  man's  wife,  rather  than  the  wife 
of  Breaking  Rock,  son  of  White  Buffalo,  the  chief,  who 
had  four  hundred  horses  and  a  face  that  would  have 
made  winter  and  sour  days  for  her.  Now  and  then 
Breaking  Rock  came  and  stood  before  the  lodge,  a  dis- 
tance off,  and  stayed  there  hour  after  hour,  and  once  or 
twice  he  came  when  her  man  was  with  her;  but  nothing 
could  be  done,  for  earth  and  air  and  space  were  common 
to  them  all,  and  there  was  no  offence  in  Breaking  Rock 
gazing  at  the  lodge  where  Mitiahwe  lived.  Yet  it  seemed 
as  though  Breaking  Rock  was  waiting  —  waiting  and 
hoping.  That  was  the  impression  made  upon  all  who 
saw  him,  and  even  old  White  Buffalo,  the  chief,  shook 

2 


A    LODGE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

his  head  gloomily  when  he  saw  Breaking  Rock,  his  son, 
staring  at  the  big  lodge  which  was  so  full  of  happiness, 
and  so  full  also  of  many  luxuries  never  before  seen  at 
a  trading-post  on  the  Koonee  River.  The  father  of 
Mitiahwe  had  been  chief,  but  because  his  three  sons  had 
been  killed  in  battle  the  chieftainship  had  come  to  White 
Buffalo,  who  was  of  the  same  blood  and  family.  There 
were  those  who  said  that  Mitiahwe  should  have  been 
chieftainess;  but  neither  she  nor  her  mother  would  ever 
listen  to  this,  and  so  White  Buffalo  and  the  tribe  loved 
Mitiahwe  because  of  her  modesty  and  goodness.  She 
was  even  more  to  White  Buffalo  than  Breaking  Rock, 
and  he  had  been  glad  that  Dingan  the  white  man — Long 
Hand  he  was  called — had  taken  Mitiahwe  for  his  woman. 
Yet  behind  this  gladness  of  White  Buffalo,  and  that 
of  Swift  Wing,  and  behind  the  silent  watchfulness  of 
Breaking  Rock,  there  was  a  thought  which  must  ever 
come  when  a  white  man  mates  with  an  Indian  maid, 
without  priest  or  preacher,  or  writing,  or  book,  or  bond. 

Yet  four  years  had  gone;  and  all  the  tribe,  and  all 
who  came  and  went,  half-breeds,  traders,  and  other 
tribes,  remarked  how  happy  was  the  white  man  with 
his  Indian  wife.  They  never  saw  anything  but  light 
in  the  eyes  of  Mitiahwe,  nor  did  the  old  women  of  the 
tribe  who  scanned  her  face  as  she  came  and  went,  and 
watched  and  waited  too  for  what  never  came — not  even 
after  four  years. 

Mitiahwe  had  been  so  happy  that  she  had  not  really 
missed  what  never  came;  though  the  desire  to  have 
something  in  her  arms  which  was  part  of  them  both  had 
flushed  up  in  her  veins  at  times,  and  made  her  restless 
till  her  man  had  come  home  again.  Then  she  had  for- 
gotten the  unseen  for  the  seen,  and  was  happy  that  they 
two  were  alone  together — that  was  the  joy  of  it  all,  so 
much  alone  together;  for  Swift  Wing  did  not  live  with 
them,  and,  like  Breaking  Rock,  she  watched  her  daugh- 

3 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

ter's  life,  standing  afar  off,  since  it  was  the  unwritten  law 
of  the  tribe  that  the  wife's  mother  must  not  cross  the 
path  or  enter  the  home  of  her  daughter's  husband.  But 
at  last  Dingan  had  broken  through  this  custom,  and  in- 
sisted that  Swift  Wing  should  be  with  her  daughter  when 
he  was  away  from  home,  as  now  on  this  wonderful  au- 
ttmin  morning,  when  Mitiahwe  had  been  singing  to  the 
Sun,  to  which  she  prayed  for  her  man  and  for  everlasting 
days  with  him. 

She  had  spoken  angrily  but  now,  because  her  soul 
sharply  resented  the  challenge  to  her  happiness  which 
her  mother  had  been  making.  It  was  her  own  eyes 
that  refused  to  see  the  cloud  which  the  sage  and  be- 
reaved woman  had  seen  and  conveyed  in  images  and 
figures  of  speech  natural  to  the  Indian  mind. 

''  Hai-yai,"  she  said  now,  with  a  strange,  touching  sigh 
breathing  in  the  words,  "  you  are  right,  my  mother,  and 
a  dream  is  a  dream;  also,  if  it  be  dreamed  three  times, 
then  is  it  to  be  followed,  and  it  is  true.  You  have  lived 
long,  and  your  dreams  are  of  the  Sun  and  the  Spirit." 
She  shook  a  little  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  a  buckskin  coat 
of  her  man  hanging  by  the  lodge  door;  then  she  steadied 
herself  again,  and  gazed  earnestly  into  her  mother's 
eyes.  "  Have  all  yoiir  dreams  come  true,  my  mother?" 
she  asked,  with  a  hungering  heart. 

"There  was  the  dream  that  came  out  of  the  dark 
five  times,  when  your  father  went  against  the  Crees,  and 
was  wounded,  and  crawled  away  into  the  hills,  and  all 
our  warriors  fled — they  were  but  a  handful,  and  the 
Crees  like  a  young  forest  in  number!  I  went  with  my 
dream,  and  found  him  after  many  days,  and  it  was 
after  that  you  were  born,  my  youngest  and  my  last. 
There  was  also" — her  eyes  almost  closed,  and  the  needle 
and  thread  she  held  lay  still  in  her  lap — "when  two  of 
your  brothers  were  killed  in  the  drive  of  the  buffalo. 
Did  I  not  see  it  all  in  my  dream,  and  follow  after  them 

4 


A    LODGE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

to  take  them  to  my  heart?  And  when  your  sister  was 
carried  off,  was  it  not  my  dream  which  saw  the  trail,  so 
that  we  brought  her  back  again  to  die  in  peace,  her  eyes 
seeing  the  Lodge  whither  she  was  going,  open  to  her, 
and  the  Sun,  the  Father,  giving  her  hght  and  promise — 
for  she  had  wounded  herself  to  die  that  the  thief  who 
stole  her  should  leave  her  to  herself!  Behold,  my 
daughter,  these  dreams  have  I  had,  and  others;  and  I 
have  lived  long  and  have  seen  the  bright  day  break  into 
storm,  and  the  herds  flee  into  the  far  hills  where  none 
could  follow,  and  hunger  come,  and — " 

"  Hai-yo,  see,  the  birds  flying  south."  said  the  girl, 
with  a  gesture  toward  the  cloudless  sky.  "  Never  since 
I  lived  have  they  gone  south  so  soon."  Again  she 
shuddered  slightly,  then  she  spoke  slowly:  "  I  also  have 
dreamed,  and  I  will  follow  my  dream.  I  dreamed" — 
.she  knelt  down  beside  her  mother  and  rested  her  hands 
in  her  mother's  lap — "  I  dreamed  that  there  was  a  wall 
of  hills  dark  and  heavy  and  far  away,  and  that  whenever 
my  eyes  looked  at  them  they  burned  with  tears;  and 
yet  I  looked  and  looked,  till  my  heart  w^as  like  lead  in 
my  breast;  and  I  turned  from  them  to  the  rivers  and 
the  plains  that  I  loved.  But  a  voice  kept  calling  to  me, 
'Come,  come!  Beyond  the  hills  is  a  happy  land.  The 
trail  is  hard,  and  your  feet  will  bleed,  but  beyond  is  the 
happy  land.'  And  I  would  not  go  for  the  voice  that 
spoke,  and  at  last  there  came  an  old  man  in  my  dream 
and  spoke  to  me  kindly,  and  said,  '  Come  with  me,  and 
I  will  show  thee  the  way  over  the  hills  to  the  Lodge 
where  thou  shalt  find  what  thou  hast  lost!'  And  I  said 
to  him,  'I  have  lost  nothing';  and  I  would  not  go. 
Twice  I  dreamed  this  dream,  and  twice  the  old  man 
came,  and  three  times  I  dreamed  it;  and  then  I  spoke 
angrily  to  him,  as  but  now  I  did  to  thee;  and  behold  he 
changed  before  my  eyes,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  now  be- 
come— "    She  stopped  short,  and  buried  her  face  in  her 

5 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

hands  for  a  moment,  then  recovered  herself.  "  Breaking 
Rock  it  was  I  saw  before  me,  and  I  cried  out  and  fled. 
Then  I  waked  with  a  cry,  but  my  man  was  beside  me, 
and  his  arm  was  round  my  neck;  and  this  dream,  is  it 
not  a  foohsh  dream,  my  mother?" 

The  old  woman  sat  silent,  clasping  the  hands  of  her 
daughter  firmly,  and  looking  out  of  the  wide  doorway 
toward  the  trees  that  fringed  the  river;  and  presently, 
as  she  looked,  her  face  changed  and  grew  pinched  all 
at  once,  and  Mitiahwe,  looking  at  her,  turned  a  startled 
face  toward  the  river  also. 

"Breaking  Rock!"  she  said,  in  alarm,  and  got  to  her 
feet  quickly. 

Breaking  Rock  stood  for  a  moment  looking  toward 
the  lodge,  then  came  slowly  forward  to  them.  Never 
in  all  the  four  years  had  he  approached  this  lodge  of 
Mitiahwe,  who,  the  daughter  of  a  chief,  should  have 
married  himself,  the  son  of  a  chief!  Slowly,  but  with 
long,  slouching  stride.  Breaking  Rock  came  nearer.  The 
two  women  watched  him  without  speaking.  Instinc- 
tively they  knew  that  he  brought  news,  that  something 
had  happened;  yet  Mitiahwe  felt  at  her  belt  for  what 
no  Indian  girl  would  be  without;  and  this  one  was  a 
gift  from  her  man  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  she 
first  came  to  his  lodge. 

Breaking  Rock  was  at  the  door  now,  his  beady  eyes 
fixed  on  Mitiahwe's,  his  figure  jerked  to  its  full  height, 
which  made  him,  even  then,  two  inches  less  than  Long 
Hand.     He  spoke  in  a  loud  voice: 

"The  last  boat  this  year  goes  down  the  river  to- 
morrow. Long  Hand,  your  man,  is  going  to  his  people. 
He  will  not  come  back.  He  has  had  enough  of  the 
Blackfoot  woman.  You  will  see  him  no  more."  He 
waved  a  hand  to  the  sky.  "  The  birds  are  going  south. 
A  hard  winter  is  coming  quick.  You  will  be  alone. 
Breaking  Rock  is  rich.     He  has  five  hundred  horses. 

6 


A    LODGE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

Your  man  is  going  to  his  own  people.  Let  him  go. 
He  is  no  man.  It  is  four  years,  and  still  there  are  but 
two  in  your  lodge.     How!" 

He  swung  on  his  heel  with  a  chuckle  in  his  throat,  for 
he  thought  he  had  said  a  good  thing,  and  that  in  truth 
he  was  worth  twenty  white  men.  His  quick  ear  caught 
a  movement  behind  him,  however,  and  he  saw  the  girl 
spring  from  the  lodge-door,  something  flashing  from  her 
belt.  But  now  the  mother's  arms  were  round  her,  with 
cries  of  protest,  and  Breaking  Rock,  with  another  laugh, 
slipped  away  softly  toward  the  river. 

"  That  is  good,"  he  muttered.  "  She  will  kill  him,  per- 
haps, when  she  goes  to  him.  She  will  go,  but  he  will  not 
stay.     I  have  heard." 

As  he  disappeared  among  the  trees,  Mitiahwe  dis- 
engaged herself  from  her  mother's  arms,  went  slowly 
back  into  the  lodge,  and  sat  down  on  the  great  couch 
where  for  so  many  moons  she  had  lain  with  her  man 
beside  her. 

Her  mother  watched  her  closely,  though  she  moved 
about  doing  little  things.  She  was  trying  to  think  what 
she  would  have  done  if  such  a  thing  had  happened  to 
her,  if  her  man  had  been  going  to  leave  her.  She  as- 
sumed that  Dingan  would  leave  Mitiahwe,  for  he  would 
hear  the  voices  of  his  people  calling  far  away,  even  as 
the  red  man  who  went  East  into  the  great  cities  heard 
the  prairies  and  the  mountains  and  the  rivers  and  his 
own  people  calling,  and  came  back,  and  put  off  the 
clothes  of  civilization,  and  donned  his  buckskins  again, 
and  sat  in  the  Medicine  Man's  tent,  and  heard  the  spirits 
speak  to  him  through  the  mist  and  smoke  of  the  sacred 
fire.  When  Swift  Wing  first  gave  her  daughter  to  the 
white  man  she  foresaw  the  danger  now  at  hand,  but  this 
was  the  tribute  of  the  lower  race  to  the  higher,  and — 
who  could  tell  ?  White  men  had  left  their  Indian  wives, 
but  had  come  back  again,  and  forever  renounced  the 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

life  of  their  own  nations,  and  become  great  chiefs,  teach- 
ing useful  things  to  their  adopted  people,  bringing  up 
their  children  as  tribesmen — bringing  up  their  children! 
There  it  was,  the  thing  which  called  them  back,  the 
bright-eyed  children,  with  the  color  of  the  brown  prairie 
in  their  faces,  and  their  brains  so  sharp  and  strong.  But 
here  was  no  child  to  call  Dingan  back,  only  the  eloquent, 

brave,  sweet  face  of  Mitiahwe If  he  went !     Would 

he  go?  Was  he  going?  And  now  that  Mitiahwe  had 
been  told  that  he  would  go,  what  would  she  do  ?  In  her 
belt  was — but,  no,  that  would  be  worse  than  all,  and 
she  would  lose  Mitiahwe,  her  last  child,  as  she  had  lost 
so  many  others.  What  would  she  herself  do  if  she  were 
in  Mitiahwe's  place?  Ah,  she  would  make  him  stay 
somehow — by  truth  or  by  falsehood;  by  the  whispered 
story  in  the  long  night;  by  her  head  upon  his  knee  be- 
fore the  lodge-fire,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  his,  luring  him, 
as  the  dream  lures  the  dreamer  into  the  far  trail,  to 
find  the  Sun's  hunting-ground,  where  the  plains  are 
filled  with  the  deer  and  the  buffalo  and  the  wild  horse; 
by  the  smell  of  the  cooking-pot  and  the  favorite  spiced 
drink  in  the  morning ;  by  the  child  that  ran  to  him  with 
his  bow  and  arrows  and  the  cry  of  the  hunter— but  there 
was  no  child ;  she  had  forgotten.  She  was  always  recall- 
ing her  own  happy  early  life  with  her  man,  and  the  clean- 
faced  papooses  that  crowded  round  his  knee — one  wife 
and  many  children,  and  the  old  Harvester  of  the  Years 
reaping  them  so  fast,  till  the  children  stood  up  as  tall 
as  their  father  and  chief.  That  was  long  ago,  and  she 
had  had  her  share — twenty-five  years  of  happiness;  but 
Mitiahwe  had  had  only  four.  She  looked  at  Mitiahwe, 
standing  still  for  a  moment  like  one  rapt,  then  suddenly 
she  gave  a  little  cry.  Something  had  come  into  her 
m.ind,  some  solution  of  the  problem,  and  she  ran  and 
stooped  over  the  girl  and  put  both  hands  on  her  head. 
"Mitiahwe,   heart's  blood  of  mine,"   she  said,   "the 

8 
/ 


A    LODGE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

birds  go  south,  but  they  return.  What  matter  if  they 
go  so  soon,  if  they  return  soon.  If  the  Sun  wills  that 
the  winter  be  dark,  and  he  sends  the  Coldmaker  to  close 
the  rivers  and  drive  the  wild  ones  far  from  the  arrow 
and  the  gun,  yet  he  may  be  sorry,  and  send  a  second 
summer — has  it  not  been  so,  and  the  Coldmaker  has 
hurried  away — away!  The  birds  go  south,  but  they 
will  return,  Mitiahwe." 

"  I  heard  a  cry  in  the  night  while  my  man  slept," 
Mitiahwe  answered,  looking  straight  before  her,  "and 
it  was  like  the  cry  of  a  bird — calling,  calling,  calling." 

"  But  he  did  not  hear — he  was  asleep  beside  Mitiahwe. 
If  he  did  not  wake,  surely  it  was  good-luck.  Thy  breath 
upon  his  face  kept  him  sleeping.  Surely  it  was  good- 
luck  to  Mitiahwe  that  he  did  not  hear," 

She  was  smiling  a  little  now,  for  she  had  thought  of  a 
thing  which  would,  perhaps,  keep  the  man  here  in  this 
lodge  in  the  wilderness;  but  the  time  to  speak  of  it  was 
not  yet.     She  must  wait  and  see. 

Suddenly  Mitiahwe  got  to  her  feet  with  a  spring,  and 
a  light  in  her  eyes.  "  Hai-yai!"  she  said,  with  plaintive 
smiling,  ran  to  a  corner  of  the  lodge,  and  from  a  leather 
bag  drew  forth  a  horseshoe  and  looked  at  it,  murmuring 
to  herself. 

The  old  woman  gazed  at  her  wonderingly.  "  What  is 
it,  Mitiahwe?"  she  asked. 

"  It  is  good-luck.  So  my  man  has  said.  It  is  the 
way  of  his  people.  It  is  put  over  the  door,  and  if  a 
dream  come  it  is  a  good  dream;  and  if  a  bad  thing 
come,  it  will  not  enter;  and  if  the  heart  prays  for  a 
thing  hid  from  all  the  world,  then  it  brings  good-luck. 
Hai-yai!  1  will  put  it  over  the  door,  and  then — "  All 
at  once  her  hand  dropped  to  her  side,  as  though  some 
terrible  thought  had  come  to  her,  and,  sinking  to  the 
floor,  she  rocked  her  body  backward  and  forward  for  a 
time,  sobbing.     But  p'-esently  she  got  to  her  feet  again, 

9 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

and,  going  to  the  door  of  the  lodge,  fastened  the  horse- 
shoe above  it  with  a  great  needle  and  a  string  of  buck- 
skin. 

"O  great  Sun,"  she  prayed,  "have  pity  on  me  and 
save  me.  I  cannot  live  alone.  I  am  only  a  Blackfoot 
wife;  I  am  not  blood  of  his  blood.  Give,  O  great  One, 
blood  of  his  blood,  bone  of  his  bone,  soul  of  his  soul, 
that  he  will  say,  '  This  is  mine,  body  of  my  body,'  and 
he  will  hear  the  cry  and  will  stay.  O  great  Sun,  pity 
me!" 

The  old  woman's  heart  beat  faster  as  she  listened. 
The  same  thought  was  in  the  mind  of  both.  If  there 
were  but  a  child,  bone  of  his  bone,  then  perhaps  he 
would  not  go;  or,  if  he  went,  then  surely  he  would  re- 
turn when  he  heard  his  papoose  calling  in  the  lodge  in 
the  wilderness. 

As  Mitiahwe  turned  to  her,  a  strange  burning  light  in 
her  eyes,  Swift  Wing  said :  "  It  is  good.  The  white  man's 
Medicine  for  a  white  man's  wife.  But  if  there  were  the 
red  man's  Medicine  too — " 

"What  is  the  red  man's  Medicine?"  asked  the  young 
wife,  as  she  smoothed  her  hair,  put  a  string  of  bright 
beads  around  her  neck,  and  wound  a  red  sash  round  her 
waist. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head,  a  curious,  half-mystic 
light  in  her  eyes,  her  body  drawn  up  to  its  full  height, 
as  though  waiting  for  something.  "  It  is  an  old  Medi- 
cine. It  is  of  winters  ago  as  many  as  the  hairs  of  the 
head.  I  have  forgotten  almost,  but  it  was  a  great 
Medicine  when  there  were  no  white  men  in  the  land. 
And  so  it  was  that  to  every  woman's  breast  there  hung 
a  papoose,  and  every  woman  had  her  man,  and  the  red 
men  were  like  leaves  in  the  forest — but  it  was  a  winter 
of  winters  ago,  and  the  Medicine  Men  have  forgotten; 
and  thou  hast  no  child !  When  Long  Hand  comes,  what 
will  Mitiahwe  say  to  him?" 

lO 


A    LODGE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

Mitiahwe's  eyes  were  determined,  her  face  was  set, 
she  flushed  deeply,  then  the  color  fled.  "What  my 
mother  would  say,  I  will  say.  Shall  the  white  man's 
Medicine  fail?  If  I  wish  it,  then  it  will  be  so;  and  I 
will  say  so." 

"But  if  the  white  man's  Medicine  fail?"  Swift  Wing 
made  a  gesture  toward  the  door  where  the  horseshoe 
hung.  "It  is  Medicine  for  a  white  man,  will  it  be  Medi- 
cine for  an  Indian?" 

"Am  I  not  a  white  man's  wife?" 

"  But  if  there  were  the  Sun  Medicine  also,  the  Medicine 
of  the  days  long  ago?" 

"Tell  me.  If  you  remember — Kai!  but  you  do  re- 
member— I  see  it  in  your  face.  Tell  me,  and  I  will 
make  that  Medicine  also,  my  mother." 

"To-morrow,  if  I  remember  it — I  will  think,  and  if  I 
remember  it,  to-morrow  I  will  tell  you,  my  heart's  blood. 
Maybe  my  dream  will  come  to  me  and  tell  me.  Then, 
even  after  all  these  years  a  papoose — " 

"But  the  boat  will  go  at  dawn  to-morrow,  and  if  he 
go  also — " 

"  Mitiahwe  is  young,  her  body  is  warm,  her  eyes  are 
bright,  the  songs  she  sings,  her  tongue — if  these  keep 
him  not,  and  the  Voice  calls  him  still  to  go,  then  still 
Mitiahwe  shall  whisper,  and  telj  him — " 

"  Hai-yo — hush,"  said  the  girl,  and  trembled  a  little, 
and  put  both  hands  on  her  mother's  mouth. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  so,  then  with  an  exclama- 
tion suddenly  turned  and  ran  through  the  doorway,  and 
sped  toward  the  river,  and  into  the  path  which  would 
take  her  to  the  post,  where  her  man  traded  with  the 
Indians  and  had  made  much  money  during  the  past  six 
years,  so  that  he  could  have  had  a  thousand  horses  and 
ten  lodges  like  that  she  had  just  left.  The  distance  be- 
tween the  lodge  and  the  post  was  no  more  than  a  mile, 
but  Mitiahwe  made  a  detour,  and  approached  it  from 

II 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

behind,  where  she  could  not  be  seen.  Darkness  was 
gathering  now,  and  she  could  see  the  glimmer  of  the  light 
of  lamps  through  the  windows,  and  as  the  doors  opened 
and  shut.  No  one  had  seen  her  approach,  and  she  stole 
through  a  door  which  was  open  at  the  rear  of  the  ware- 
housing room,  and  went  quickly  to  another  door  leading 
into  the  shop.  There  was  a  crack  through  which  she 
could  see,  and  she  could  hear  all  that  was  said.  As  she 
came  she  had  seen  Indians  gliding  through  the  woods 
with  their  purchases,  and  now  the  shop  was  clearing 
fast,  in  response  to  the  urging  of  Dingan  and  his  partner, 
a  Scotch  half-breed.  It  was  evident  that  Dingan  was  at 
once  abstracted  and  excited. 

Presently  only  two  visitors  were  left — a  French  half- 
breed  called  Lablache,  a  swaggering,  vicious  fellow,  and 
the  captain  of  the  steamer  Ste.  Anne,  which  was  to 
make  its  last  trip  south  in  the  morning — even  now  it 
would  have  to  break  its  way  through  the  young  ice. 

Dingan's  partner  dropped  a  bar  across  the  door  of  the 
shop,  and  the  four  men  gathered  about  the  fire.  For  a 
time  no  one  spoke.  At  last  the  captain  of  the  Ste.  Anne 
said:  "  It's  a  great  chance,  Dingan.  You'll  be  in  civili- 
zation again,  and  in  a  rising  town  of  white  people — 
Groise  '11  be  a  city  in  five  years,  and  you  can  grow  up 
and  grow  rich  with  the  place.  The  Company  asked 
me  to  lay  it  all  before  you,  and  Lablache  here  will  buy 
out  your  share  of  the  business,  at  whatever  your  partner 
and  you  prove  it's  worth.  You're  young;  you've  got 
everything  before  you.  You've  made  a  name  out  here 
for  being  the  best  trader  west  of  the  Great  Lakes,  and 
now's  your  time.  It's  none  of  my  affair,  of  course,  but 
I  like  to  carry  through  what  I'm  set  to  do,  and  the 
Company  said,  '  You  bring  Dingan  back  with  you.  The 
place  is  waiting  for  him,  and  it  can't  wait  longer  than 
the  last  boat  down.'  You're  ready  to  step  in  when  he 
steps  out,  ain't  you,  Lablache?" 

12 


A    LODGE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

Lablache  shook  back  his  long  hair,  and  rolled  about 
in  his  pride.  "  I  give  him  cash  for  his  share  to-night — 
some  one  is  behin'  me,  sacre,  yes!  It  is  worth  so  much, 
I  pay  and  step  in — I  take  the  place  over.  I  take  half 
the  business  here,  and  I  work  with  Dingan's  partner.  I 
take  your  horses,  Dingan,  I  take  your  lodge,  I  take  all 
in  your  lodge — every fing." 

His  eyes  glistened,  and  a  red  spot  came  to  each  cheek 
as  he  leaned  forward.  At  his  last  word  Dingan,  who 
had  been  standing  abstractedly  listening  as  it  were, 
swung  round  on  him  with  a  muttered  oath,  and  the  skin 
of  his  face  appeared  to  tighten.  Watching  through  the 
crack  of  the  door,  Mitiahwe  saw  the  look  she  knew  well, 
though  it  had  never  been  turned  on  her,  and  her  heart 
beat  faster.  It  was  a  look  that  came  into  Dingan's  face 
whenever  Breaking  Rock  crossed  his  path,  or  when  one 
or  two  other  names  were  mentioned  in  his  presence,  for 
they  were  names  of  men  who  had  spoken  of  Mitiahwe 
lightly,  and  had  attempted  to  be  jocular  about  her. 

As  Mitiahwe  looked  at  him,  now  unknown  to  himself, 
she  was  conscious  of  what  that  last  word  of  Lablache's 
meant.  Everyfing  meant  herself.  Lablache — who  had 
neither  the  good  qualities  of  the  white  man  nor  the 
Indian,  but  who  had  the  brains  of  the  one  and  the 
subtlety  of  the  other,  and  whose  only  virtue  was  that  he 
was  a  successful  trader,  though  he  looked  like  a  mere 
woodsman,  with  rings  in  his  ears,  gayly  decorated 
buckskin  coat  and  moccasins,  and  a  furtive  smile  always 
on  his  lips!  Everyfing!  Her  blood  ran  cold  at  the 
thought  of  dropping  the  lodge-curtain  upon  this  man 
and  herself  alone.  For  no  other  man  than  Dingan  had 
her  blood  run  faster,  and  he  had  made  her  life  blossom. 
She  had  seen  in  many  a  half-breed's  and  in  many  an 
Indian's  face  the  look  which  was  now  in  that  of  La- 
blache, and  her  fingers  gripped  softly  the  thing  in  her 
belt  that  had  flashed  out  on  Breaking  Rock  such  a  short 

13 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

while  ago.  As  she  looked,  it  seemed  for  a  moment  as 
though  Dingan  would  open  the  door  and  throw  Lablache 
out,  for  in  quick  reflection  his  eyes  ran  from  the  man  to 
the  wooden  bar  across  the  door. 

"  You'll  talk  of  the  shop,  and  the  shop  only,  Lablache," 
he  said,  grimly.  "  I'm  not  huckstering  my  home,  and 
I'd  choose  the  buyer  if  I  was  selling.  My  lodge  ain't  to 
be  bought,  nor  anything  in  it — not  even  the  broom  to 
keep  it  clean  of  any  half-breeds  that  'd  enter  it  without 
leave." 

There  was  malice  in  the  words,  but  there  was  greater 
malice  in  the  tone,  and  Lablache,  who  was  bent  on 
getting  the  business,  swallowed  his  ugly  wrath,  and 
determined  that,  if  he  got  the  business,  he  would  get  the 
lodge  also  in  due  time;  for  Dingan,  if  he  went,  would 
not  take  the  lodge — or  the  woman — with  him ;  and  Din- 
gan was  not  fool  enough  to  stay  when  he  could  go  to 
Groise  to  a  sure  fortune. 

The  captain  of  the  Sfe.  Anne  again  spoke.  "There's 
another  thing  the  Company  said,  Dingan.  You  needn't 
go  to  Groise,  not  at  once.  You  can  take  a  month  and 
visit  your  folks  down  East,  and  lay  in  a  stock  of  home- 
feelings  before  you  settle  down  at  Groise  for  good. 
They  was  fair  when  I  put  it  to  them  that  you'd  mebbe 
want  to  do  that.  '  You  tell  Dingan,'  they  said,  '  that  he 
can  have  the  month  glad  and  grateful,  and  a  free  ticket 
on  the  railway  back  and  forth.  He  can  have  it  at  once,' 
they  said." 

Watching,  Mitiahwe  could  see  her  man's  face  brighten, 
and  take  on  a  look  of  longing  at  this  suggestion;  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  bird  she  heard  in  the  night  was 
calling  in  his  ears  now.  Her  eyes  went  blind  for  a 
moment. 

"The  game  is  with  you,  Dingan.  All  the  cards  are 
in  your  hands;  you'll  never  get  such  another  chance 
again;   and  you're  only  thirty,"  said  the  captain, 

14 


A    LODGE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

"  I  wish  they'd  ask  me,"  said  Dingan's  partner,  with  a 
sigh,  as  he  looked  at  Lablache.  "  I  want  my  chance 
bad,  though  we've  done  well  here — good  gosh,  yes,  all 
through   Dingan . ' ' 

"The  winters,  they  go  queeck  in  Groise,"  said  La- 
blache. "  It  is  life  all  the  time,  trade  all  the  time,  plenty 
to  do  and  see — and  a  bon  fortune  to  make,  bagosh!" 

"  Your  old  home  was  in  Nova  Scotia,  wasn't  it,  Din- 
gan?" asked  the  captain,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  kem  from 
Connecticut,  and  I  was  East  to  my  village  las'  year.  It 
was  good,  seein'  all  my  old  friends  again;  but  I  kem 
back  content,  I  kem  back  full  of  home-feelin's  and  con- 
tent.    You'll  like  the  trip,  Dingan.     It  '11  do  you  good." 

Dingan  drew  himself  up  with  a  start.  "  All  right.  I 
guess  I'll  do  it.  Let's  figure  up  again,"  he  said  to  his 
partner,  with  a  reckless  air. 

With  a  smothered  cry  Mitiahwe  turned  and  fled  into 
the  darkness,  and  back  to  the  lodge.  The  lodge  was 
empty.  She  threw  herself  upon  the  great  couch  in  an 
agony  of  despair. 

A  half-hour  went  by.  Then  she  rose,  and  began  to 
prepare  supper.  Her  face  was  aflame,  her  manner  was 
determined,  and  once  or  twice  her  hand  went  to  her 
belt,  as  though  to  assure  herself  of  something. 

Never  had  the  lodge  looked  so  bright  and  cheerful; 
never  had  she  prepared  so  appetizing  a  supper;  never 
had  the  great  couch  seemed  so  soft  and  rich  with  furs, 
so  home-like  and  so  inviting  after  a  long  day's  work. 
Never  had  Mitiahwe  seemed  so  good  to  look  at,  so  grace- 
ful and  alert  and  refined — suffering  does  its  work  even 
in  the  wild  woods,  with  "wild  people."  Never  had  the 
lodge  such  an  air  of  welcome  and  peace  and  home  as 
to-night;  and  so  Dingan  thought  as  he  drew  aside  the 
wide  curtains  of  deerskin  and  entered. 

Mitiahwe  was  bending  over  the  fire,  and  appeared  not 
to  hear  him.     "  Mitiahwe,"  he  said,  gently. 

15 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

She  was  singing  to  herself,  to  an  Indian  air,  the  words 
of  a  song  Dingan  had  taught  her: 

"Open  the  door:   cold  is  the  night,  and  my  feet  are  heavy, 
Heap  up  the  fire,  scatter  upon  it  the  cones  and  the  scented 

leaves ; 
Spread  the  soft  robe  on  the  couch  for  the  chief  that 

returns, 
Bring  forth  the  cup  of  remembrance — " 

It  was  like  a  low  recitative,  and  it  had  a  plaintive 
cadence,  as  of  a  dove  that  mourned. 

"Mitiahwe,"  he  said,  in  a  louder  voice,  but  with  a 
break  in  it,  too;  for  it  all  rushed  upon  him,  all  that  she 
had  been  to  him — all  that  had  made  the  great  West 
glow  with  life,  made  the  air  sweeter,  the  grass  greener, 
the  trees  more  companionable  and  human:  who  it  was 
that  had  given  the  waste  places  a  voice.  Yet — yet, 
there  were  his  own  people  in  the  East,  there  was  another 
life  waiting  for  him,  there  was  the  life  of  ambition  and 
wealth,  and,  and  home — and  children. 

His  eyes  were  misty  as  she  turned  to  him  with  a 
little  cry  of  surprise,  how  much  natural  and  how  much 
assumed — for  she  had  heard  him  enter — it  would  have 
been  hard  to  say.  She  was  a  woman,  and  therefore  the 
daughter  of  pretence  even  when  most  real.  He  caught 
her  by  both  arms  as  she  shyly  but  eagerly  came  to  him. 
"Good  girl,  good  little  girl,"  he  said.  He  looked  round 
him.  "  Well,  I've  never  seen  our  lodge  look  nicer  than 
it  does  to-night;  and  the  fire,  and  the  pot  on  the  fire, 
and  the  smell  of  the  pine-cones,  and  the  cedar-boughs, 
and  the  skins,  and — " 

"And  everything,"  she  said,  with  a  queer  little  laugh, 
as  she  moved  away  again  to  turn  the  steaks  on  the 
fire. 

Everything!  He  started  at  the  word.  It  was  so 
strange  that  she  should  use  it  by  accident,  when  but 

i6 


A    LODGE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

a  little  while  ago  he  had  been  ready  to  choke  the  wind 
out  of  a  man's  body  for  using  it  concerning  herself. 

It  stunned  him  for  a  moment,  for  the  West,  and  the 
life  apart  from  the  world  of  cities,  had  given  him  super- 
stition, like  that  of  the  Indians,  whose  life  he  had  made 
his  own. 

Herself! — to  leave  her  here,  who  had  been  so  much  to 
him  ?  As  true  as  the  sun  she  worshipped,  her  eyes  had 
never  lingered  on  another  man  since  she  came  to  his 
lodge;  and,  to  her  mind,  she  was  as  truly  sacredly 
married  to  him  as  though  a  thousand  priests  had  spoken, 
or  a  thousand  Medicine  Men  had  made  their  incanta- 
tions. She  was  his  woman  and  he  was  her  man.  As  he 
chatted  to  her,  telling  her  of  much  that  he  had  done 
that  day,  and  wondering  how  he  could  tell  her  of  all 
he  had  done,  he  kept  looking  round  the  lodge,  his  eye 
resting  on  this  or  that;  and  everything  had  its  own  per- 
sonal history,  had  become  part  of  their  lodge-life,  be- 
cause it  had  a  use  as  between  him  and  her,  and  not  a 
conventional  domestic  place.  Every  skin,  every  utensil, 
every  pitcher  and  bowl  and  pot  and  curtain  had  been 
with  them  at  one  time  or  another  when  it  became  of 
importance  and  renowned  in  the  story  of  their  days  and 
deeds. 

How  could  he  break  it  to  her — that  he  was  going  to 
visit  his  own  people,  and  that  she  must  be  alone  with 
her  mother  all  winter,  to  await  his  return  in  the  spring  ? 
His  return?  As  he  watched  her  sitting  beside  him, 
helping  him  to  his  favorite  dish,  the  close,  companion- 
able trust  and  gentleness  of  her,  her  exquisite  cleanness 
and  grace  in  his  eyes,  he  asked  himself  if,  after  all,  it 
was  not  true  that  he  would  return  in  the  spring.  The 
years  had  passed  without  his  seriously  thinking  of  this 
inevitable  day.  He  had  put  it  off  and  off,  content  to 
live  each  hour  as  it  came  and  take  no  real  thought  for 
the  future;    and  yet,  behind  all  was  the  warning  fact 

17 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

that  he  must  go  one  day,  and  that  Mitiahwe  could  not 
go  with  him.  Her  mother  must  have  known  that  when 
she  let  Mitiahwe  come  to  him.  Of  course ;  and,  after  all, 
she  would  find  another  mate,  a  better  mate,  one  of  her 
own  people. 

But  her  hand  was  in  his  now,  and  it  was  small  and 
very  warm,  and  suddenly  he  shook  with  anger  at  the 
thought  of  one  like  Breaking  Rock  taking  her  to  his 
wigwam;  or  Lablache — this  roused  him  to  -an  inward 
fury;  and  Mitiahwe  saw  and  guessed  the  struggle  that 
was  going  on  in  him,  and  she  leaned  her  head  against 
his  shoulder,  and  once  she  raised  his  hand  to  her  lips, 
and  said,  "My  chief!" 

Then  his  face  cleared  again,  and  she  got  him  his  pipe 
and  filled  it,  and  held  a  coal  to  light  it;  and,  as  the 
smoke  curled  up,  and  he  leaned  back  contentedly  for 
the  moment,  she  went  to  the  door,  drew  open  the  cur- 
tains, and,  stepping  outside,  raised  her  eyes  to  the  horse- 
shoe. Then  she  said  softly  to  the  sky:  "O  Sun,  great 
Father,  have  pity  on  me,  for  I  love  him,  and  would  keep 
him.  And  give  me  bone  of  his  bone,  and  one  to  nurse 
at  my  breast  that  is  of  him.  O  Sun,  pity  me  this  night, 
and  be  near  me  when  I  speak  to  him,  and  hear  what  I  say." 

"What  are  you  doing  out  there,  Mitiahwe?"  Dingan 
cried;  and  when  she  entered  again  he  beckoned  her  to 
him.  "  What  was  it  you  were  saying  ?  Who  were  you 
speaking  to?"  he  asked.     "I  heard  your  voice." 

"  I  was  thanking  the  Sun  for  his  goodness  to  me.  I 
was  speaking  for  the  thing  that  is  in  my  heart,  that  is 
life  of  my  life,"  she  added,  vaguely. 

"Well,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  little  girl,"  he 
said,  with  an  effort. 

She  remained  erect  before  him  waitmg  for  the  blow — 
outwardly  calm,  inwardly  crying  out  in  pain.  "  Do  you 
think  you  could  stand  a  little  parting?"  he  asked,  reach- 
ing out  and  touching  her  shoulder. 

i8 


A    LODGE    IN    THE    WILDERNESS 

"  I  have  been  alone  before — for  five  days,"  she  an- 
swered, quietly. 

"But  it  must  be  longer  this  time." 

"  How  long?"  she  asked,  with  eyes  fixed  on  his.  "  If 
it  is  more  than  a  week,  I  will  go  too." 

"  It  is  longer  than  a  month,"  he  said. 

"Then  I  will  go." 

"  I  am  going  to  see  my  people,"  he  faltered. 

"By  the  Ste.  Amw?" 

He  nodded.  "It  is  the  last  chance  this  year;  but  I 
will  come  back — in  the  spring." 

As  he  said  it  he  saw  her  shrink,  and  his  heart  smote 
him.  Four  years  such  as  few  men  ever  spent,  and  all 
the  luck  had  been  with  him,  and  the  West  had  got  into 
his  bones!  The  quiet,  starry  nights,  the  wonderful  days, 
the  hunt,  the  long  journeys,  the  life  free  of  care,  and 
the  warm  lodge;  and,  here,  the  great  couch — ah,  the 
cheek  pressed  to  his,  the  lips  that  whispered  at  his  ear, 
the  smooth  arm  round  his  neck.  It  all  rushed  upon 
him  now.  His  people!  His  people  in  the  East,  who 
had  thwarted  his  youth,  vexed  and  cramped  him,  saw 
only  evil  in  his  widening  desires,  and  threw  him  over 
when  he  came  out  West — the  scallywag,  they  called 
him,  who  had  never  wronged  a  man  or — or  a  woman? 
Never — wronged — a — woman?  The  question  sprang  to 
his  lips  now.  Suddenly  he  saw  it  all  in  a  new  light. 
White  or  brown  or  red,  this  heart  and  soul  and  body 
before  him  were  all  his,  sacred  to  him;  he  was  in  very 
truth  her  "chief." 

Untutored  as  she  was,  she  read  him,  felt  what  was 
going  on  in  him.  She  saw  the  tears  spring  to  his  eyes. 
Then,  coming  close  to  him,  she  said,  softly,  slowly:  "I 
must  go  with  you  if  you  go,  because  you  must  be  with 
me  when —  Oh,  hai-yai,  my  chief,  shall  we  go  from  here  ? 
Here  in  this  lodge  wilt  thou  be  with  thine  own  peo- 
ple— thine  own,  thou  and  I  —  and  thine  to  come."     The 

3  19 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

great  passion  in  her  heart  made  the  lie  seem  very 
truth. 

With  a  cry  he  got  to  his  feet,  and  stood  staring  at  her 
for  a  moment,  scarcely  comprehending;  then  suddenly 
he  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

"Mitiahwe — Mitiahwe,  oh,  my  litttle  girl!"  he  cried. 
"You  and  me — and  our  own — our  own  people!"  Kiss- 
ing her,  he  drew  her  down  beside  him  on  the  couch. 
"Tell  me  again — is  it  so  at  last?"  he  said,  and  she  whis- 
pered in  his  ear  once  more. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  said  to  her,  "  Some  day, 
perhaps,  we  will  go  East — some  day,  perhaps." 

"But  now?"  she  asked,  softly. 

"Not  now — not  if  I  know  it,"  he  answered.  "I've 
got  my  heart  nailed  to  the  door  of  this  lodge." 

As  he  slept  she  got  quietly  out,  and,  going  to  the 
door  of  the  lodge,  reached  up  a  hand  and  touched  the 
horseshoe. 

"  Be  good  Medicine  to  me,"  she  said.  Then  she 
prayed.  "  O  Sun,  pity  me,  that  it  may  be  as  I  have 
said  to  him.     Oh,  pity  me,  great  Father!" 

In  the  days  to  come  Swift  Wing  said  that  it  was  her 
Medicine — when  her  hand  was  burned  to  the  wrist  in 
the  dark  ritual  she  had  performed  with  the  Medicine 
Man  the  night  that  Mitiahwe  fought  for  her  man;  but 
Mitiahwe  said  it  was  her  Medicine,  the  horseshoe,  which 
brought  one  of  Dingan's  own  people  to  the  lodge — a  lit- 
tle girl  with  Mitiahwe's  eyes  and  form  and  her  father's 
face.  Truth  has  many  mysteries,  and  the  faith  of  the 
woman  was  great;  and  so  it  was  that,  to  the  long  end, 
Mitiahwe  kept  her  man.  But  truly  she  was  altogether 
a  woman,  and  had  good- fortune. 


ONCE  AT  RED  MAN'S  RIVER 

"  It's  got  to  be  settled  to-night,  Nance.  This  game 
is  up  here,  up  forever.  The  redcoat  poHce  from  Ottawa 
are  coming,  and  they'll  soon  be  roostin'  in  this  post,  the 
Injuns  are  goin',  the  buffaloes  are  most  gone,  and  the 
fur  trade's  dead  in  these  parts.     D'ye  see?" 

The  woman  did  not  answer  the  big,  broad-shouldered 
man  bending  over  her,  but  remained  looking  into  the 
fire  with  wide,  abstracted  eyes,  and  a  face  somewhat  set. 

"  You  and  your  brother  Bantry's  got  to  go.  This 
store  ain't  worth  a  cent  now.  The  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany '11  come  along  with  the  redcoats,  and  they'll  set 
up  a  nice  little  Sunday-school  business  here  for  what 
they  call  'agricultural  settlers.'  There'll  be  a  railway, 
and  the  Yankees  '11  send  up  their  marshals  to  work  with 
the  redcoats  on  the  border,  and — " 

"And  the  days  of  smuggling  will  be  over,"  put  in  the 
girl,  in  a  low  voice.  "  No  more  bull-whackers  and  mule- 
skinners  '  whooping-it  up ' ;  no  more  Blackfeet  and  Pie- 
gans  drinking  alcohol  and  water,  and  cutting  one  anoth- 
ers'  throats.  A  nice,  quiet  time  coming  on  the  border 
Abe,  eh?" 

The  man  looked  at  her  queerly.  She  was  not  prone 
to  sarcasm,  she  had  not  been  given  to  sentimentalism  in 
the  past;  she  had  taken  the  border-life  as  it  was,  had 
looked  it  straight  between  the  eyes.  She  had  lived  up 
to  it,  or  down  to  it,  without  any  fuss,  as  good  as  any 
man  in  any  phase  of  the  life,  and  the  only  white  woman 

21 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

in  this  whole  West  country.  It  was  not  in  the  words, 
but  in  the  tone,  that  Abe  Hawley  found  something  un- 
usual and  defamatory. 

"  Why,  gol  darn  it,  Nance,  what's  got  into  you?  You 
bin  a  man  out  West,  as  good  a  pioneer  as  ever  was  on 
the  border.  But  now  you  don't  sound  friendly  to  what's 
been  the  game  out  here,  and  to  all  of  us  that  've  been 
risking  our  lives  to  get  a  livin'." 

"What  did  I  say?"  asked  the  girl,  unmoved. 

"  It  ain't  what  you  said,  it's  the  sound  o'  your  voice." 

"  You  don't  know  my  voice,  Abe.  It  ain't  always  the 
same.  You  ain't  always  about;  you  don't  always  hear 
it." 

He  caught  her  arm  suddenly.  "  No,  but  I  want  to 
hear  it  always.  I  want  to  be  always  where  you  are, 
Nance.  That's  what's  got  to  be  settled  to-day — 
to-night." 

"Oh,  it's  got  to  be  settled  to-night!"  said  the  girl, 
meditatively,  kicking  nervously  at  a  log  on  the  fire. 
"  It  takes  two  to  settle  a  thing  like  that,  and  there's  only 
one  says  it's  got  to  be  settled.  Maybe  it  takes  more 
than  two— or  three— to  settle  a  thing  like  that."  Now 
she  laughed  mirthlessly. 

The  man  started,  and  his  face  flushed  with  anger; 
then  he  put  a  hand  on  himself,  drew  a  step  back,  and 
watched  her. 

"  One  can  settle  a  thing,  if  there's  a  dozen  in  it.  You 
see,  Nance,  you  and  Bantry  've  got  to  close  out.  He's 
fixing  it  up  to-night  over  at  Dingan's  Drive,  and  you 
can't  go  it  alone  when  you  quit  this  place.  Now,  it's 
this  way:  you  can  go  West  with  Bantry,  or  you  can  go 
North  with  me.  Away  North  there's  buffalo  and  deer, 
and  game  a-plenty,  up  along  the  Saskatchewan,  and 
farther  up  on  the  Peace  River.  It's  going  to  be  all  right 
up  there  for  half  a  lifetime,  and  we  can  have  it  in  our 
own  way  yet.     There'll  be  no  smuggling,  but  there'll 

22 


ONCE    AT    RED    MAN'S    RIVER 

be  trading,  and  land  to  get;  and,  mebbe,  there'd  be  no 
need  of  smuggling,  for  we  can  make  it,  I  know  how — • 
good  white  whiskey — and  we'll  still  have  this  free  life 
for  our  own.  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  to  settle  down 
to  a  clean  collar  and  going  to  church  on  Sundays,  and 
all  that.  And  the  West's  in  your  bones,  too.  You  look 
like  the  West—" 

The  girl's  face  brightened  with  pleasure,  and  she  gazed 
at  him  steadily. 

"  You  got  its  beauty  and  its  freshness,  and  you  got 
its  heat  and  cold — " 

She  saw  the  tobacco-juice  stain  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  she  became  conscious  of  the  slight  odor  of  spirits 
in  the  air,  and  the  light  in  her  face  lowered  in  intensity. 

"  You  got  the  ways  of  the  deer  in  your  walk,  the  song 
o'  the  birds  in  your  voice;  and  you're  going  North  with 
me,  Nance,  for  I  bin  talkin'  to  you  stiddy  four  years. 
It's  a  long  time  to  wait  on  the  chance,  for  there's  always 
women  to  be  got,  same  as  others  have  done — men  like 
Dingan  with  Injun  girls,  and  men  like  Tobey  with  half- 
breeds.  But  I  ain't  bin  lookin'  that  way.  I  bin  lookin' 
only  toward  you."  He  laughed  eagerly,  and  lifted  a  tin 
cup  of  whiskey  standing  on  a  table  near.  "  I'm  lookin' 
toward  you  now,  Nance.  Your  health  and  mine  to- 
gether. It's  got  to  be  settled  now.  You  got  to  go  to 
the  'Cific  Coast  with  Bantry,  or  North  with  me." 

The  girl  jerked  a  shoulder  and  frowned  a  little.  He 
seemed  so  sure  of  himself. 

"  Or  South  with  Nick  Pringle,  or  East  with  some  one 
else,"  she  said,  quizzically.  "There's  always  four 
quarters  to  the  compass,  even  when  Abe  Hawley  thinks 
he  owns  the  world  and  has  a  mortgage  on  eternity.  I'm 
not  going  West  with  Bantry,  but  there's  three  other 
points  that's  open." 

With  an  oath  the  man  caught  her  by  the  shoulders, 
and  swung  her  round  to  face  him.     He  was  swelling 

23 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

with  anger.     "  You — Nick  Pringle,  that  trading  cheat, 
that  gambler!     After  four  years,  I — " 

"Let  go  my  shoulders,"  she  said,  quietly.  "I'm  not 
your  property.  Go  and  get  some  Piegan  girl  to  bully. 
Keep  your  hands  off.  I'm  not  a  bronco  for  you  to  bit 
and  bridle.  You've  got  no  rights.  You — "  Suddenly 
she  relented,  seeing  the  look  in  his  face,  and  realizing 
that,  after  all,  it  was  a  tribute  to  herself  that  she  could 
keep  him  for  four  years  and  rouse  him  to  such  fury. 
"But  yes,  Abe,"  she  added,  "you  have  some  rights. 
We've  been  good  friends  all  these  years,  and  you've 
been  all  right  out  here.  You  said  some  nice  things 
about  me  just  now,  and  I  liked  it,  even  if  it  was  as  if 
you'd  learned  it  out  of  a  book.  I've  got  no  po'try  in 
me;  I'm  plain  homespun.  I'm  a  sapling,  I'm  not  any 
prairie-flower,  but  I  like  when  I  like,  and  I  like  a  lot 
when  I  like.  I'm  a  bit  of  hickory,  I'm  not  a  prairie- 
fiower — " 

"  Who  said  you  was  a  prairie-fiower  ?  Did  I  ?  Who's 
talking  about  prairie-flowers — " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  turned  round  at  the  sound  of 
a  footstep  behind  him,  and  saw,  standing  in  a  doorway 
leading  to  another  room,  a  man  who  was  digging  his 
knuckles  into  his  eyes  and  stifling  a  yawn.  He  was  a 
refined-looking  stripling  of  not  more  than  twenty-four, 
not  tall,  but  well-made,  and  with  an  air  of  breeding, 
intensified  rather  than  hidden  by  his  rough  clothes. 

"  Je-rick-ety !  How  long  have  I  slept  ?"  he  said,  blink- 
ing at  the  two  beside  the  fire.  "  How  long?"  he  added, 
with  a  flutter  of  anxiety  in  his  tone. 

"I  said  I'd  wake  you,"  said  the  girl,  coming  forward. 
"You  needn't  have  worried." 

"I  don't  worry,"  answered  the  young  man.  "I 
dreamed  my  self  awake,  I  suppose.  I  got  dreaming  of 
redcoats  and  U.  S.  marshals,  and  an  ambush  in  the 
Barfleur   Coulee,    and — "     He    saw   a   secret,    warning 

24 


ONCE    AT    RED    MAN'S    RIVER 

gesture  from  the  girl,  and  laughed,  then  turned  to  Abe 
and  looked  him  in  the  face.  "Oh,  I  know  him!  Abe 
Hawley's  all  O.K. — I've  seen  him  over  at  Dingan's 
Drive.  Honor  among  rogues.  We're  all  in  it.  How 
goes  it — all  right?"  he  added,  carelessly,  to  Hawley,  and 
took  a  step  forward,  as  though  to  shake  hands.  Seeing 
the  forbidding  look  by  which  he  was  met,  however,  he 
turned  to  the  girl  again,  as  Hawley  muttered  something 
they  could  not  hear. 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"  It's  nine  o'clock,"  answered  the  girl,  her  eyes  watch- 
ing his  every  movement,  her  face  alive. 

"Then  the  moon's  up  almost?" 

"  It  '11  be  up  in  an  hour." 

"  Jerickety !  Then  I've  got  to  get  ready. ' '  He  turned 
to  the  other  room  again  and  entered. 

"College  pup!"  said  Hawley,  under  his  breath,  sav- 
agely.    "Why  didn't  you  teU  me  he  was  here?" 

"Was  it  any  of  your  business,  Abe?"  she  rejoined, 
quietly. 

"Hiding  him  away  here — " 

"Hiding?  Who's  been  hiding  him?  He's  doing 
what  you've  done.  He's  smuggling — the  last  lot  for 
the  traders  over  by  Dingan's  Drive.  He'll  get  it  there 
by  morning.  He  has  as  much  right  here  as  you.  What's 
got  into  you,  Abe?" 

"  What  does  he  know  about  the  business?  Why,  he's 
a  college  man  from  the  East.  I've  heard  o'  him.  Ain't 
got  no  more  sense  for  this  life  than  a  dicky-bird.  White- 
faced  college  pup!  What's  he  doing  out  here?  If 
you're  a  friend  o'  his,  you'd  better  look  after  him.  He's 
green." 

"He's  going  East  again,"  she  said,  "and  if  I  don't 
go  West  with  Bantry,  or  South  over  to  Montana  with 
Nick  Pringle,  or  North — " 

"Nance!"     His  eyes  burned,  his  lips  quivered. 

25 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

She  looked  at  him  and  wondered  at  the  power  she 
had  over  this  bully  of  the  border,  who  had  his  own  way 
with  most  people,  and  was  one  of  the  most  daring 
fighters,  hunters,  and  smugglers  in  the  country.  He 
was  cool,  hard,  and  well  in  hand  in  his  daily  life,  and 
yet,  where  she  was  concerned,  "went  all  to  pieces,"  as 
some  one  else  had  said  about  himself  to  her. 

She  was  not  without  the  wiles  and  tact  of  her  sex. 
"You  go  now,  and  come  back,  Abe,"  she  said,  in  a  soft 
voice.  "  Come  back  in  an  hour.  Come  back  then,  and 
I'll  tell  you  which  way  I'm  going  from  here." 

He  was  all  right  again.  "  It's  with  you,  Nance,"  he 
said,  eagerly.     "I  bin  waiting  four  years." 

As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him  the  "college  pup" 
entered  the  room  again.  "Oh,  Abe's  gone!"  he  said, 
excitedly.  "  I  hoped  you'd  get  rid  of  the  old  rip-roarer. 
I  wanted  to  be  alone  with  you  for  a  while.  I  don't 
really  need  to  start  yet.  With  the  full  moon  I  can  do 
it  before  daylight."  Then,  with  quick  warmth,  "Ah, 
Nancy,  Nancy,  you're  a  flower — the  flower  of  all  the 
prairies,"  he  added,  catching  her  hand  and  laughing 
into  her  eyes. 

She  flushed,  and  for  a  moment  seemed  almost  be- 
wildered. His  boldness,  joined  to  an  air  of  insinuation 
and  understanding,  had  influenced  her  greatly  from  the 
first  moment  they  had  met,  two  months  ago,  as  he  was 
going  South  on  his  smuggling  enterprise.  The  easy 
way  in  which  he  had  talked  to  her,  the  extraordinary 
sense  he  seemed  to  have  of  what  was  going  on  in  her 
mind,  the  confidential  meaning  in  voice  and  tone  and 
words  had,  somehow,  opened  up  a  side  of  her  nature 
hitherto  unexplored.  She  had  talked  with  him  freely 
then,  for  it  was  only  when  he  left  her  that  he  said  what 
he  instinctively  knew  she  would  remember  till  they  met 
again.  His  quick  comments,  his  indirect  but  acute 
questions,  his  exciting  and  alluring  reminiscences  of  the 

26 


ONCE    AT    RED    MAN'S    RIVER 

East,  his  subtle  yet  seemingly  frank  compliments,  had 
only  stimulated  a  new  capacity  in  her,  evoked  com- 
parisons of  this  delicate-looking,  fine-faced  gentleman 
with  the  men  of  the  West  by  whom  she  was  surrounded. 
But  later  he  appeared  to  stumble  into  expressions  of 
admiration  for  her,  as  though  he  was  carried  off  his  feet 
and  had  been  stunned  by  her  charm.  He  had  done  it 
all  like  a  master.  He  had  not  said  that  she  was  beauti- 
ful— she  knew  she  was  not — but  that  she  was  wonderful 
and  fascinating,  and  with  "something  about  her"  he 
had  never  seen  in  all  his  life :  like  her  own  prairies,  thrill- 
ing, inspiring,  and  adorable.  His  first  look  at  her  had 
seemed  full  of  amazement.  She  had  noticed  that,  and 
thought  it  meant  only  that  he  was  surprised  to  find 
a  white  girl  out  here  among  smugglers,  hunters,  squaw- 
men,  and  Indians.  But  he  said  that  the  first  look  at 
her  had  made  him  feel  things,  feel  life  and  women  dif- 
ferent from  ever  before;  and  he  had  never  seen  any  one 
like  her,  nor  a  face  with  so  much  in  it.  It  was  all  very 
brilliantly  done. 

"  You  make  me  want  to  live,"  he  had  said,  and  she, 
with  no  knowledge  of  the  nuances  of  language,  had 
taken  it  literally,  and  had  asked  him  if  it  had  been  his 
wish  to  die;  and  he  had  responded  to  her  mistaken 
interpretation  of  his  meaning,  saying  that  he  had  had 
such  sorrow  he  had  not  wanted  to  live.  As  he  said  it 
his  face  looked,  in  truth,  overcome  by  some  deep,  in- 
ward care;  so  that  there  came  a  sort  of  feeling  she  had 
never  had  so  far  for  any  man — that  he  ought  to  have 
some  one  to  look  after  him.  This  was  the  first  real 
stirring  of  the  maternal  and  protective  spirit  in  her  tow- 
ard men,  though  it  had  shown  itself  amply  enough  re- 
garding animals  and  birds.  He  had  said  he  had  not 
wanted  to  live,  and  yet  he  had  come  out  West  in  order 
to  try  and  live,  to  cure  the  trouble  that  had  started  in 
his  lungs.     The  Eastern  doctors  had  told  him  that  the 

27 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

rough,  out- door  life  would  cure  him  or  nothing  would, 
and  he  had  vanished  from  the  college  walls  and  the 
pleasant  purlieus  of  learning  and  fashion  into  the  wilds. 
He  had  not  lied  directly  to  her  when  he  said  that  he 
had  had  deep  trouble;  but  he  had  given  the  impression 
that  he  was  suffering  from  wrongs  which  had  broken  his 
spirit  and  ruined  his  health.  Wrongs  there  certainly  had 
been  in  his  life,  by  whomever  committed. 

Two  months  ago  he  had  left  this  girl  with  her  mind 
full  of  memories  of  what  he  had  said  to  her,  and  there 
was  something  in  the  sound  of  the  slight  cough  follow- 
ing his  farewell  words  which  had  haunted  her  ever  since. 
Her  tremendous  health  and  energy,  the  fire  of  life  burn- 
ing so  brightly  in  her,  reached  out  toward  this  man  living 
on  so  narrow  a  margin  of  force,  with  no  reserve  for  any 
extra  strain,  with  just  enough  for  each  day's  use  and  no 
more.  Four  hours  before  he  had  come  again  with  his 
team  of  four  mules  and  an  Indian  youth,  having  cov- 
ered forty  miles  since  his  last  stage.  She  was  at  the  door, 
and  saw  him  coming  while  he  was  yet  a  long  distance 
off.  Some  instinct  had  told  her  to  watch  that  afternoon, 
for  she  knew  of  his  intended  return  and  of  his  dangerous 
enterprise.  The  Indians  had  trailed  south  and  east, 
the  traders  had  disappeared  with  them,  her  brother 
Bantry  had  gone  up  and  over  to  Dingan's  Drive,  and, 
save  for  a  few  loiterers  and  last  hangers-on,  she  was 
alone  with  what  must  soon  be  a  deserted  post ;  its  walls, 
its  great  enclosed  yard,  and  its  gun-platforms  (for  it  had 
been  fortified)  left  for  law  and  order  to  enter  upon,  in 
the  persons  of  the  red-coated  watchmen  of  the  law. 

Out  of  the  South,  from  over  the  border,  bringing  the 
last  great  smuggled  load  of  whiskey  which  was  to  be 
handed  over  at  Dingan's  Drive,  and  then  floated  on  Red 
Man's  River  to  settlements  up  North,  came  the  "  college 
pup,"  Kelly  Lambton,  worn  out,  dazed  with  fatigue,  but 
smiling  too,  for  a  woman's  face  was  ever  a  tonic  to  his 

28 


ONCE    AT    RED    MAN'S    RIVER 

blood  since  he  was  big  enough  to  move  in  Hfe  for  him- 
self. It  needed  courage — or  recklessness — to  run  the 
border  now;  for,  as  Abe  Hawley  had  said,  the  American 
marshals  were  on  the  pounce,  the  red-coated  mounted 
police  were  coming  west  from  Ottawa,  and  word  had 
winged  its  way  along  the  prairie  that  these  redcoats  were 
only  a  few  score  miles  away,  and  might  be  at  Fort  Stay- 
Awhile  at  any  moment.  The  trail  to  Dingan's  Drive 
lay  past  it.  Through  Barfleur  Coulee,  athwart  a  great, 
open  stretch  of  country,  along  a  wooded  belt,  and  then, 
suddenly,  over  a  ridge,  Dingan's  Drive  and  Red  Man's 
River  would  be  reached. 

The  Government  had  a  mind  to  make  an  example,  if 
necessary,  by  killing  some  smugglers  in  conflict,  and  the 
United  States  marshals  had  been  goaded  by  vanity  and 
anger  at  one  or  two  escapes  "to  have  something  for 
their  money,"  as  they  said.  That,  in  their  language, 
meant,  "to  let  the  red  run,"  and  Kelly  Lambton  had 
none  too  much  blood  to  lose. 

He  looked  very  pale  and  beaten  as  he  held  Nance 
Machell's  hands  now,  and  called  her  a  prairie-flower,  as 
he  had  done  when  he  left  her  two  months  before.  On 
his  arrival,  but  now  he  had  said  little,  for  he  saw  that 
she  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  he  was  dead  for  sleep,  after 
thirty-six  hours  of  ceaseless  travel  and  watching  and 
danger.  Now,  with  the  most  perilous  part  of  his  jour- 
ney still  before  him,  and  worn  physically  as  he  was, 
his  blood  was  running  faster  as  he  looked  into  the  girl's 
face,  and  something  in  her  abundant  force  and  bounding 
life  drew  him  to  her.  Such  vitality  in  a  man  like  Abe 
Hawley  would  have  angered  him  almost,  as  it  did  a 
little  time  ago,  when  Abe  was  there;  but  possessed  by 
the  girl,  it  roused  in  him  a  hunger  to  draw  from  the  well 
of  her  perfect  health,  from  the  unused  vigor  of  her 
being,  something  for  himself.  The  touch  of  her  hands 
warmed  him.     In  the  fulness  of  her  life,  in  the  strong 

29 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

eloquence  of  face  and  form,  he  forgot  she  was  not 
beautiful.  The  lightness  passed  from  his  words,  and 
his  face  became  eager. 

"  Flower,  yes,  the  flower  of  the  life  of  the  West — that's 
what  I  mean,"  he  said.  "  You  are  like  an  army  march- 
ing. When  I  look  at  you,  my  blood  runs  faster.  I  want 
to  march  too.  When  I  hold  your  hand  I  feel  that  life's 
worth  living — I  want  to  do  things." 

She  drew  her  hand  away  rather  awkwardly.  She  had 
not  now  that  command  of  herself  which  had  ever  been 
easy  with  the  men  of  the  West,  except,  perhaps,  with 
Abe  Hawley  when — 

But  with  an  attempt,  only  half-meant,  to  turn  the 
topic,  she  said:  "You  must  be  starting  if  you  want  to 
get  through  to-night.  If  the  redcoats  catch  you  this 
side  of  Barfleur  Coulee,  or  in  the  Coulee  itself,  you'll 
stand  no  chance.  I  heard  they  was  only  thirty  miles 
north  this  afternoon.  Maybe  they'll  come  straight  on 
here  to-night,  instead  of  camping.  If  they  have  news  of 
your  coming,  they  might.     You  can't  tell." 

"  You're  right."  He  caught  her  hand  again.  "  I've 
got  to  be  going  now.  But  Nance — Nance — Nancy, 
I  want  to  stay  here,  here  with  you;  or  to  take  you 
with  me." 

She  drew  back,  "What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 
"Take  me  with  you — me — where?" 

"East — away  down  East." 

Her  brain  throbbed,  her  pulses  beat  so  hard.  She 
scarcely  knew  what  to  say,  did  not  know  what  she  said. 
"Why  do  you  do  this  kind  of  thing?  Why  do  you 
smuggle?"  she  asked.  "You  wasn't  brought  up  to 
this." 

"  To  get  this  load  of  stufE  through  is  life  and  death  to 
me,"  he  answered.  "  I've  made  six  thousand  dollars 
out  here.  That's  enough  to  start  me  again  in  the  East, 
where   I  lost  everything.     But   I've  got  to  have  six 

30 


ONCE     AT    RED    MAN'S    RIVER 

hundred  dollars  clear  for  the  travel — railways  and  things ; 
and  I'm  having  this  last  run  to  get  it.  Then  I've  fin- 
ished with  the  West,  I  guess.  My  health's  better;  the 
lung  is  closed  up,  I've  only  got  a  little  cough  now  and 
again,  and  I'm  off  East.  I  don't  want  to  go  alone." 
He  suddenly  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "  I  want  you — 
you,  to  go  with  me,  Nancy — Nance!" 

Her  brain  swam.  To  leave  the  West  behind,  to  go 
East  to  a  new  life  full  of  pleasant  things,  as  this  man's 
wife!  Her  great  heart  rose,  and  suddenly  the  mother 
in  her  as  well  as  the  woman  in  her  was  captured  by 
his  wooing.  She  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be 
wooed  like  this. 

She  was  about  to  answer  when  there  came  a  sharp 
knock  at  the  door  leading  from  the  back  yard,  and 
Lambton's  Indian  lad  entered.  "  The  soldier — he  come 
— many.  I  go  over  the  ridge,  I  see.  They  come 
quick  here,"  he  said. 

Nance  gave  a  startled  cry,  and  Lambton  turned  to 
the  other  room  for  his  pistols,  overcoat,  and  cap,  when 
there  was  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs,  the  door  suddenly 
opened,  and  an  officer  stepped  inside. 

"You're  wanted  for  smuggling,  Lambton,"  he  said, 
brusquely.     "Don't  stir!"     In  his  hand  was  a  revolver. 

"Oh,  bosh!  Prove  it,"  answered  the  young  man, 
pale  and  startled,  but  cool  in  speech  and  action. 

"We'll  prove  it  all  right.     The  stuff  is  hereabouts." 

The  girl  said  something  to  the  officer  in  the  Chinook 
language.  She  saw  he  did  not  understand.  Then  she 
spoke  quickly  to  Lambton  in  the  same  tongue. 

"  Keep  him  here  a  bit,"  she  said.  "  His  men  haven't 
come  yet.  Your  outfit  is  well  hid.  I'll  see  if  I  can  get 
away  with  it  before  they  find  it.  They'll  follow,  and 
bring  you  with  them,  that's  sure.  So  if  I  have  luck  and 
get  through,  we'll  meet  at  Dingan's  Drive." 

Lambton's  face  brightened.     He  quickly  gave  her  a 

31 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

few  directions  in  Chinook,  and  told  her  what  to  do  at 
Dingan's  if  she  got  there  first.     Then  she  was  gone. 

The  officer  did  not  understand  what  Nance  had  said, 
but  he  reahzed  that,  whatever  she  intended  to  do,  she 
had  an  advantage  over  him.  With  an  unnecessary 
courage  he  had  ridden  on  alone  to  make  his  capture, 
and,  as  it  proved,  without  prudence.  He  had  got  his 
man,  but  he  had  not  got  the  smuggled  whiskey  and 
alcohol  he  had  come  to  seize.  There  was  no  time  to  be 
lost.  The  girl  had  gone  before  he  realized  it.  What 
had  she  said  to  the  prisoner  ?  He  was  foolish  enough 
to  ask  Lambton,  and  Lambton  replied,  coolly:  "She 
said  she'd  get  you  some  supper,  but  she  guessed  it  would 
have  to  be  cold —  What's  your  name?  Are  you  a 
colonel,  or  a  captain,  or  only  a  principal  private?" 

"  I  am  Captain  MacFee,  Lambton.  And  you'll  now 
bring  we  where  your  outfit  is.     March!" 

The  pistol  was  still  in  his  hand,  and  he  had  a  deter- 
mined look  in  his  eye.  Lambton  saw  it.  He  was 
aware  of  how  much  power  lay  in  the  threatening  face 
before  him,  and  how  eager  that  power  was  to  make 
itself  felt,  and  provide  "Examples";  but  he  took  his 
chances. 

"I'll  march  all  right,"  he  answered;  "but  I'll  march 
to  where  you  tell  me.  You  can't  have  it  both  ways. 
You  can  take  me,  because  you've  found  me,  and  you 
can  take  my  outfit,  too,  when  you've  found  it;  but  I'm 
not  doing  your  work,  not  if  I  know  it." 

There  was  a  blaze  of  anger  in  the  eyes  of  the  officer, 
and  it  looked  for  an  instant  as  though  something  of 
the  lawlessness  of  the  border  was  going  to  mark  the 
first  step  of  the  Law  in  the  Wilderness,  but  he  bethought 
himself  in  time,  and  said,  quietly,  yet  in  a  voice  which 
Lambton  knew  he  must  heed: 

"  Put  on  your  things — quick." 

When    this    was    accomplished,    and    MacFee    had 

32 


ONCE    AT    RED    MAN'S    RIVER 

secured  the  smuggler's  pistols,  he  said  again,  "March, 
Lambton!" 

Lambton  marched  through  the  moonlit  night  toward 
the  troop  of  men  who  had  come  to  set  up  the  flag  of 
order  in  the  plains  and  hills,  and  as  he  went  his  keen 
ear  heard  his  own  mules  galloping  away  down  toward 
the  Barfleur  Coulee.  His  heart  thumped  in  his  breast. 
This  girl,  this  prairie-flower,  was  doing  this  for  him,  was 
risking  her  life,  was  breaking  the  law  for  him.  If  she 
got  through,  and  handed  over  the  whiskey  to  those  who 
were  waiting  for  it,  and  it  got  bundled  into  the  boats 
going  North  before  the  redcoats  reached  Dingan's  Drive, 
it  would  be  as  fine  a  performance  as  the  West  had  ever 
seen;  and  he  would  be  six  hundred  dollars  to  the  good. 
He  listened  to  the  mules  galloping,  till  the  sounds  had 
died  into  the  distance,  but  he  saw  now  that  his  captor 
had  heard  too,  and  that  the  pursuit  would  be  desperate. 

A  half-hour  later  it  began,  with  MacFee  at  the  head 
and  a  dozen  troopers  pounding  behind,  weary,  hungry, 
bad-tempered,  ready  to  exact  payment  for  their  hard- 
ships and  discouragement. 

They  had  not  gone  a  dozen  miles  when  a  shouting 
hprseman  rode  furiously  on  them  from  behind.  They 
turned  with  carbines  cocked,  but  it  was  Abe  Hawley, 
who  cursed  them,  flung  his  fingers  in  their  faces,  and 
rode  on  harder  and  harder.  Abe  had  got  the  news 
from  one  of  Nancy's  half-breeds,  and,  with  the  devil 
raging  in  his  heart,  had  entered  on  the  chase.  His 
spirit  was  up  against  them  all:  against  the  Law  repre- 
sented by  the  troopers  camped  at  Fort  Stay-Awhile, 
against  the  troopers  and  their  captain  speeding  after 
Nancy  Machell — his  Nance,  who  was  risking  her  life 
and  freedom  for  the  hated,  pale-faced  smuggler  riding 
between  the  troopers;  and  his  spirit  was  up  against 
Nance  herself. 

Nance  had  said  to  him,  "Come  back  in  an  hour,"  and 

23 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

he  had  come  back  to  find  her  gone.  She  had  broken 
her  word.  She  had  deceived  him.  She  had  thrown 
the  four  years  of  his  waiting  to  the  winds,  and  a  savage 
lust  was  in  his  heart,  which  would  not  be  appeased  till 
he  had  done  some  evil  thing  to  some  one. 

The  girl  and  the  Indian  lad  were  pounding  through 
the  night  with  ears  strained  to  listen  for  hoof-beats 
coming  after,  with  eyes  searching  forward  into  the  trail 
for  swollen  creeks  and  direful  obstructions.  Through 
Barfleur  Coulee  it  was  a  terrible  march,  for  there  was 
no  road,  and  again  and  again  they  were  nearly  over- 
turned, while  wolves  hovered  in  their  path,  ready  to 
reap  a  midnight  harvest.  But  once  in  the  open  again, 
with  the  full  moonlight  on  their  trail,  the  girl's  spirits 
rose.  If  she  could  do  this  thing  for  the  man  who  had 
looked  into  her  eyes  as  no  one  had  ever  done,  what  a 
finish  to  her  days  in  the  West!  For  they  were  finished, 
finished  forever,  and  she  was  going  —  she  was  going 
East;  not  West  with  Bantry,  nor  South  with  Nick 
Pringle,  nor  North  with  Abe  Hawley — ah,  Abe  Hawley! 
He  had  been  a  good  friend,  he  had  a  great  heart,  he  was 
the  best  man  of  all  the  Western  men  she  had  known; 
but  another  man  had  come  from  the  East,  a  man  who 
had  roused  something  in  her  never  felt  before,  a  man 
who  had  said  she  was  wonderful;  and  he  needed  some 
one  to  take  good  care  of  him,  to  make  him  love  life 
again.  Abe  would  have  been  all  right  if  Lambton  had 
never  come,  and  she  had  meant  to  marry  Abe  in  the 
end;  but  it  was  different  now,  and  Abe  must  get  over 
it.  Yet  she  had  told  Abe  to  come  back  in  an  hour. 
He  was  sure  to  do  it;  and,  when  he  had  done  it,  and 
found  her  gone  on  this  errand,  what  would  he  do  ?  She 
knew  what  he  would  do.  He  would  hurt  some  one. 
He  would  follow,  too.  But  at  Dingan's  Drive,  if  she 
reached  it  before  the  troopers  and  before  Abe,  and  did 
the  thing  she  had  set  out  to  do ;  and  because  no  whiskey 

34 


ONCE    AT    RED    MAN'S    RIVER 

could  be  found,  Lambton  must  go  free;  and  they  all 
stood  there  together,  what  would  be  the  end?  Abe 
would  be  terrible;  but  she  was  going  East,  not  North, 
and,  when  the  time  came  she  would  face  it  and  put  things 
right  somehow. 

The  night  seemed  endless  to  her  fixed  and  anxious 
eyes  and  mind,  yet  dawn  came,  and  there  had  fallen  no 
sound  of  hoof-beats  on  her  ear.  The  ridge  above  Din- 
gan's  Drive  was  reached  and  covered,  but  yet  there  was 
no  sign  of  her  pursuers.  At  Red  Man's  River  she  de- 
livered her  load  of  contraband  to  the  traders  waiting 
for  it,  and  saw  it  loaded  into  the  boats  and  disappear 
beyond  the  wooded  bend  above  Dingan's. 

Then  she  collapsed  into  the  arms  of  her  brother 
Bantry,  and  was  carried,  fainting,  into  Dingan's  Lodge. 

A  half-hour  later  MacFee  and  his  troopers  and  Lamb- 
ton  came.  MacFee  grimly  searched  the  post  and  the 
shore,  but  he  saw  by  the  looks  of  all  that  he  had  been 
foiled.  He  had  no  proof  of  anything,  and  Lambton 
must  go  free. 

"  You've  fooled  us,"  he  said  to  Nance,  sourly,  yet  with 
a  kind  of  admiration,  too.  "Through  you,  they  got 
away  with  it.  But  I  wouldn't  try  it  again,  if  I  were 
you." 

"Once  is  enough,"  answered  the  girl,  laconically,  as 
Lambton,  set  free,  caught  both  her  hands  in  his  and 
whispered  in  her  ear. 

MacFee  turned  to  the  others.  "  You'd  better  drop 
this  kind  of  thing,"  he  said.  "  I  mean  business."  They 
saw  the  troopers  by  the  horses,  and  nodded. 

"  Well,  we  was  about  quit  of  it  anyhow,"  said  Bantry. 
"We've  had  all  we  want  out  here." 

A  loud  laugh  went  up,  and  it  was  still  ringing  when 
there  burst  into  the  group,  out  of  the  trail,  Abe  Hawley, 
on  foot. 

He  looked  round  the  group   savagely  till  his  eyes 

4  35 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

rested  on  Nance  and  Lambton.  "I'm  last  in,"  he  said, 
in  a  hoarse  voice.  "  My  horse  broke  its  leg  cutting 
across  to  get  here  before  her — "  He  waved  a  hand 
toward  Nance.  "  It's  best  stickin'  to  old  trails,  not 
tryin'  new  ones."  His  eyes  were  full  of  hate  as  he 
looked  at  Lambton.  "  I'm  keeping  to  old  trails.  I'm 
for  goin'  North,  far  up,  where  these  two-dollar- a-day 
and  hash  -  and  -  clothes  people  ain't  come  yet."  He 
made  a  contemptuous  gesture  toward  MacFee  and  his 
troopers.  "  I'm  goin'  North — "  He  took  a  step  for- 
ward and  fixed  his  bloodshot  eyes  on  Nance.  "  I  say 
I'm  goin'  North.  You  comin'  with  me,  Nance?"  He 
took  off  his  cap  to  her. 

He  was  haggard,  his  buckskins  were  torn,  his  hair  was 
dishevelled,  and  he  limped  a  little;  but  he  was  a  mas- 
sive and  striking  figure,  and  MacFee  watched  him 
closely,  for  there  was  that  in  his  eyes  which  meant 
trouble.  "  You  said,  '  Come  back  in  an  hour,'  Nance, 
and  I  come  back,  as  I  said  I  would,"  he  went  on.  "  You 
didn't  stand  to  your  word.  I've  come  to  git  it.  I'm 
goin'  North,  Nance,  and  I  bin  waitin'  for  four  years  for 
you  to  go  with  me.     Are  you  comin'  ?" 

His  voice  was  quiet,  but  it  had  a  choking  kind  of 
sound,  and  it  struck  strangely  in  the  ears  of  all.  MacFee 
came  nearer. 

"Are  you  comin'  with  me,  Nance,  dear?" 

She  reached  a  hand  toward  Lambton,  and  he  took  it, 
but  she  did  not  speak.  Something  in  Abe's  eyes  over- 
whelmed her — something  she  had  never  seen  before,  and 
it  seemed  to  stifle  speech  in  her.    Lambton  spoke  instead. 

"She's  going  East  with  me,"  he  said.  "That's  set- 
tled." 

MacFee  started.  Then  he  caught  Abe's  arm.  "  Wait !' ' 
he  said,  peremptorily.     "Wait  one  minute." 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  which  held  Abe 
back  for  the  instant. 

36 


THE     START     ON      THE     NORTH      TRAIL 


ONCE    AT    RED    MAN'S    RIVER 

"You  say  she  is  going  East  with  you,"  MacFee  said, 
sharply,  to  Lambton.  "What  for?"  He  fastened 
Lambton  with  his  eyes,  and  Lambton  quailed.  "  Have 
you  told  her  you've  got  a  wife — down  East  ?  I've  got 
your  history,  Lambton.  Have  you  told  her  that  you've 
got  a  wife  you  married  when  you  were  at  college — and 
as  good  a  girl  as  ever  lived?" 

It  had  come  with  terrible  suddenness  even  to  Lamb- 
ton, and  he  was  too  dazed  to  make  any  reply.  With  a 
cry  of  shame  and  anger,  Nancy  started  back.  Growling 
with  rage  and  hate,  Abe  Hawley  sprang  toward  Lamb- 
ton, but  the  master  of  the  troopers  stepped  between. 

No  one  could  tell  who  moved  first,  or  who  first  made 
the  suggestion,  for  the  minds  of  all  were  the  same,  and 
the  general  purpose  was  instantaneous;  but  in  the 
fraction  of  a  minute  Lambton,  under  menace,  was  on 
his  hands  and  knees  crawling  to  the  riverside.  Watch- 
ful, but  not  interfering,  the  master  of  the  troopers  saw 
him  set  adrift  in  a  canoe  without  a  paddle,  while  he 
was  pelted  with  mud  from  the  shore. 

The  next  morning  at  sunrise  Abe  Hawley  and  the 
girl  he  had  waited  for  so  long  started  on  the  North 
trail  together,  MacFee,  master  of  the  troopers  and  jus- 
tice of  the  peace,  handing  over  the  marriage  lines. 


THE    STROKE   OF   THE   HOUR 

"They  won't  come  to-night — sure." 

The  girl  looked  again  toward  the  west,  where,  here 
and  there,  bare  poles,  or  branches  of  trees,  or  slips  of 
underbrush,  marked  a  road  made  across  the  plains 
through  the  snow.  The  sun  was  going  down  golden 
red,  folding  up  the  sky  a  wide,  soft  curtain  of  pink  and 
mauve  and  deep  purple  merging  into  the  fathomless 
blue,  where  already  the  stars  were  beginning  to  quiver. 
The  house  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  little  forest,  which 
had  boldly  asserted  itself  in  the  wide  flatness.  At  this 
point  in  the  west  the  prairie  merged  into  an  undulating 
territory,  where  hill  and  wood  rolled  away  from  the  banks 
of  the  Saskatchewan,  making  another  England  in  beauty. 
The  forest  was  a  sort  of  advance-post  of  that  land  of 
beauty. 

Yet  there  was  beauty,  too,  on  this  prairie,  though 
there  was  nothing  to  the  east  but  snow  and  the  forest 
so  far  as  eye  could  see.  Nobility  and  peace  and  power 
brooded  over  the  white  world. 

As  the  girl  looked,  it  seemed  as  though  the  bosom  of 
the  land  rose  and  fell.  She  had  felt  this  vibrating  life 
beat  beneath  the  frozen  surface.  Now,  as  she  gazed, 
she  smiled  sadly  to  herself,  with  drooping  eyelids  look- 
ing out  from  beneath  strong  brows. 

"  I  know  you — I  know  you,"  she  said,  aloud.  "  You've 
got  to  take  your  toll.  And  when  you're  lying  asleep 
like  that,   or  pretending  to,   you  reach   up — and   kill. 

38 


THE    STROKE    OF    THE    HOUR 

And  yet  you  can  be  kind — ah,  but  you  can  be  kind 
and  beautiful!  But  you  must  have  your  toll  one  way 
or  t'other."  She  sighed  and  paused;  then,  after  a 
moment,  looking  along  the  trail — "  I  don't  expect  they'll 
come  to-night,  and  mebbe  not  to-morrow,  if — if  they 
stay  for  that." 

Her  eyes  closed,  she  shivered  a  little.  Her  lips  drew 
tight,  and  her  face  seemed  suddenly  to  get  thinner. 
"  But  dad  wouldn't — no,  he  couldn't,  not  considerin' — " 
Again  she  shut  her  eyes  in  pain. 

Her  face  was  now  turned  from  the  western  road  by 
which  she  had  expected  her  travellers,  and  toward  the 
east,  where  already  the  snow  was  taking  on  a  faint 
bluish  tint,  a  reflection  of  the  sky  deepening  toward 
night  in  that  half-circle  of  the  horizon.-  Distant  and  a 
little  bleak  and  cheerless  the  half-circle  was  looking  now. 

"  No  one — not  for  two  weeks,"  she  said,  in  comment 
on  the  eastern  trail,  which  was  so  little  frequented  in 
winter,  and  this  year  had  been  less  travelled  than  ever. 
"It  would  be  nice  to  have  a  neighbor,"  she  added,  as 
she  faced  the  west  and  the  sinking  sun  again.  "  I  get 
so  lonely — just  minutes  I  get  lonely.  But  it's  them 
minutes  that  seem  to  count  more  than  all  the  rest  when 
they  come.  I  expect  that's  it — we  don't  live  in  months 
and  years,  but  just  in  minutes.  It  doesn't  take  long 
for  an  earthquake  to  do  its  work — it's  seconds  then.  .  .  . 
P'r'aps  dad  won't  even  come  to-morrow,"  she  added, 
as  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  latch.  "  It  never  seemed 
so  long  before,  not  even  when  he's  been  away  a  week." 
She  laughed  bitterly.  "Even  bad  company's  better 
than  no  company  at  all.  Sure.  And  Mickey  has  been 
here  always  when  dad's  been  away  past  times.  Mickey 
was  a  fool,  but  he  was  company;  and  mebbe  he'd  have 
been  better  company  if  he'd  been  more  of  a  scamp  and 
less  a  fool.  I  dunno,  but  I  really  think  he  would.  Bad 
company  doesn't  put  you  off  so." 

39 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

There  was  a  scratching  at  the  inside  of  the  door. 
"My,  if  I  didn't  forget  Shako,"  she  said,  "and  he  dying 
for  a  run!" 

She  opened  the  door  quickly,  and  out  jumped  a 
Russian  dog  of  almost  full  breed,  with  big,  soft  eyes 
like  those  of  his  mistress,  and  with  the  air  of  the  north 
in  every  motion — like  his  mistress  also. 

"Come,  Shako,  a  run — a  run!" 

An  instant  after  she  was  flying  off  on  a  path  toward 
the  woods,  her  short  skirts  flying  and  showing  limbs  as 
graceful  and  shapely  as  those  of  any  woman  of  that 
world  of  social  grace  which  she  had  never  seen;  for  she 
was  a  prairie  girl  through  and  through,  born  on  the 
plains  and  fed  on  its  scanty  fare — scanty  as  to  variety, 
at  least.  Backward  and  forward  they  ran,  the  girl  shout- 
ing like  a  child  of  ten — she  was  twenty-three — her  eyes 
flashing,  her  fine  white  teeth  showing,  her  hands  thrown 
up  in  sheer  excess  of  animal  life,  her  hair  blowing  about 
her  face — brown,  strong  hair,  wavy  and  plentiful. 

Fine  creature  as  she  was.  her  finest  features  were  her 
eyes  and  her  hands.  The  eyes  might  have  been  found 
in  the  most  savage  places;  the  hands,  however,  only 
could  have  come  through  breeding.  She  had  got  them 
honestly;  for  her  mother  was  descended  from  an  old 
family  of  the  French  province.  That  was  why  she  had 
the  name  of  Loisette — and  had  a  touch  of  distinction. 
It  was  the  strain  of  the  patrician  in  the  full  blood  of  the 
peasant;  but  it  gave  her  something  which  made  her 
what  she  was — what  she  had  been  since  a  child,  notice- 
able and  besought,  sometimes  beloved.  It  was  too 
strong  a  nature  to  compel  love  often,  but  it  never  failed 
to  compel  admiration.  Not  greatly  a  creature  of  words, 
she  had  become  moody  of  late;  and  even  now,  alive  with 
light  and  feeling  and  animal  life,  she  suddenly  stopped 
her  romp  and  run,  and  called  the  dog  to  her. 

"Heel,  Shako!"  she  said,  and  made  for  the  door  of 

40 


THE    STROKE    OF    THE    HOUR 

the  little  house,  which  looked  so  snug  and  homelike. 
She  paused  before  she  came  to  the  door,  to  watch  the 
smoke  curling  up  from  the  chimney  straight  as  a  column, 
for  there  was  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring.  The  sun  was 
almost  gone,  and  the  strong  bluish  light  was  settling 
on  everything,  giving  even  the  green  spruce -trees  a 
curious  burnished  tone. 

Swish!  Thud!  She  faced  the  woods  quickly.  It 
was  only  a  sound  that  she  had  heard  how  many  hun- 
dreds of  times!  It  was  the  snow  slipping  from  some 
broad  branch  of  the  fir-trees  to  the  ground.  Yet  she 
started  now.  Something  was  on  her  mind,  agitating 
her  senses,  afifecting  her  self-control. 

"  I'll  be  jumping  out  of  my  boots  when  the  fire  snaps, 
or  the  frost  cracks  the  ice,  next,"  she  said,  aloud,  con- 
temptuously. "  I  dunno  what's  the  matter  with  me. 
I  feel  as  if  some  one  was  hiding  somewhere  ready  to  pop 
out  on  me.     I  haven't  never  felt  like  that  before." 

She  had  formed  the  habit  of  talking  to  herself,  for  it 
had  seemed  at  first,  as  she  was  left  alone  when  her  father 
went  trapping  or  upon  journeys  for  the  Government, 
that  by-and-by  she  would  start  at  the  sound  of  her  own 
voice  if  she  didn't  think  aloud.  So  she  was  given  to 
soliloquy,  defying  the  old  belief  that  people  who  talked 
to  themselves  were  going  mad.  She  laughed  at  that. 
She  said  that  birds  sang  to  themselves  and  didn't  go 
mad,  and  crickets  chirruped,  and  frogs  croaked,  and  owls 
hooted,  and  she  would  talk  and  not  go  crazy  either. 
So  she  talked  to  herself  and  to  Shako  when  she  was 
alone. 

How  quiet  it  was  inside  when  her  light  supper  was 
eaten — bread  and  beans  and  pea-soup;  she  had  got  this 
from  her  French  mother.  Now  she  sat,  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  her  chin  on  her  hands,  looking  into  the  fire. 
Shako  was  at  her  feet  upon  the  great  musk-ox  rug, 
which  her  father  had  got  on  one  of  his  hunting  trips  in 

41 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

the  Athabasca  country  years  ago.  It  belonged  as  she 
belonged.  It  breathed  of  the  life  of  the  north-land,  for 
the  timbers  of  the  hut  were  hewn  cedar;  the  rough 
chimney,  the  seats,  and  the  shelves  on  which  a  few  books 
made  a  fair  show  beside  the  bright  tins  and  the  scanty 
crockery,  were  of  pine;  and  the  horned  heads  of  deer 
and  wapiti  made  pegs  for  coats  and  caps,  and  rests  for 
guns  and  rifles.  It  was  a  place  of  comfort;  it  had  an 
air  of  well-to-do  thrift,  even  as  the  girl's  dress,  though 
plain,  was  made  of  good,  sound  stuff,  gray,  with  a  touch 
of  dark  red  to  match  the  auburn  of  her  hair. 

A  book  lay  open  in  her  lap,  but  she  had  scarcely 
tried  to  read  it.  She  had  put  it  down  after  a  few  mo- 
ments fixed  upon  it.  It  had  sent  her  thoughts  off  into 
a  world  where  her  life  had  played  a  part  too  big  for 
books,  too  deep  for  the  plummet  of  any  save  those  who 
had  lived  through  the  storm  of  life's  trials;  and  life 
when  it  is  bitter  to  the  young  is  bitter  with  an  agony 
the  old  never  know.     At  last  she  spoke  to  herself. 

"She  knows  now!  Now  she  knows  what  it  is,  how  it 
feels — your  heart  like  red-hot  coals,  and  something  in 
your  head  that's  like  a  turnscrew,  and  you  want  to  die 
and  can't,  for  you've  got  to  live  and  suffer!" 

Again  she  was  quiet,  and  only  the  dog's  heavy  breath- 
ing, the  snap  of  the  fire,  or  the  crack  of  a  timber  in  the 
deadly  frost  broke  the  silence.  Inside  it  was  warm  and 
bright  and  homelike;  outside  it  was  twenty  degrees  be- 
low zero,  and  like  some  vast  tomb  where  life  itself  was 
congealed,  and  only  the  white  stars,  low,  twinkling,  and 
quizzical,  lived — a  life  of  sharp  corrosion,  not  of  fire. 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  head  and  listened.  The  dog 
did  the  same.  None  but  those  whose  lives  are  lived  in 
lonely  places  can  be  so  acute,  so  sensitive  to  sound. 
It  was  a  feeling  delicate  and  intense,  the  whole  nature 
getting  the  vibration.  You  could  have  heard  nothing, 
had  you  been  there;  none  but  one  who  was  of  the  wide 

42 


THE    STROKE    OF    THE    HOUR 

spaces  could  have  done  so.  But  the  dog  and  the  woman 
felt,  and  both  strained  toward  the  window.  Again  they 
heard,  and  started  to  their  feet.  It  was  far,  far  away, 
and  still  you  could  not  have  heard ;  but  now  they  heard 
clearly— a  cry  in  the  night,  a  cry  of  pain  and  despair. 
The  girl  ran  to  the  window  and  pulled  aside  the  bear- 
skin curtain  which  had  completely  shut  out  the  light. 
Then  she  stirred  the  fire,  threw  a  log  upon  it,  snuflEed 
the  candles,  hastily  put  on  her  moccasins,  fur  coat,  wool 
cap,  and  gloves,  and  went  to  the  door  quickly,  the  dog 
at  her  heels.     Opening  it,  she  stepped  out  into  the  night. 

"Qui  va  la?  Who  is  it?  Where?"  she  called,  and 
strained  toward  the  west.  She  thought  it  might  be  her 
father  or  Mickey  the  hired  man,  or  both. 

The  answer  came  from  the  east,  out  of  the  homeless, 
neighborless,  empty  east  —  a  cry,  louder  now.  There 
were  only  stars,  and  the  night  was  dark,  though  not 
deep  dark.  She  sped  along  the  prairie  road  as  fast  as 
she  could,  once  or  twice  stopping  to  call  aloud.  In 
answer  to  her  calls  the  voice  sounded  nearer  and  nearer. 
Now  suddenly  she  left  the  trail  and  bore  away  north- 
ward. At  last  the  voice  was  very  near.  Presently  a 
figure  appeared  ahead,  staggering  toward  her. 

''Qui  va  la?     Who  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Ba'tiste  Caron,"  was  the  reply  in  English,  in  a  faint 
voice.     She  was  beside  him  in  an  instant. 

"What  has  happened?  Why  are  you  off  the  trail?" 
she  said,  and  supported  him. 

"My  Injun  stoled  my  dogs  and  run  off,"  he  replied. 
"  I  run  after.  Then,  when  I  am  to  come  to  the  trail" — 
he  paused  to  find  the  English  word,  and  could  not— 
"encore  to  this  trail  I  no  can.  So.  Ah,  bon  Dieu,  it 
has  so  awful!"  He  swayed  and  would  have  fallen,  but 
she  caught  him,  bore  him  up.  She  was  so  strong,  and 
he  was  as  slight  as  a  girl,  though  tall. 

"When  was  that?"  she  asked. 

43 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"Two  nights  ago,"  he  answered,  and  swayed. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  and  pulled  a  flask  from  her  pocket. 
"Drink  this— quick!" 

He  raised  it  to  his  lips,  but  her  hand  was  still  on  it, 
and  she  only  let  him  take  a  little.  Then  she  drew  it 
away,  though  she  had  almost  to  use  force,  he  was  so 
eager  for  it.     Now  she  took  a  biscuit  from  her  pocket. 

"Eat;  then  some  more  brandy,  after,"  she  urged. 
"Come  on;  it's  not  far.  See,  there's  the  light,"  she 
added,  cheerily,  raising  her  head  toward  the  hut. 

"  I  saw  it  just  when  I  have  fall  down — it  safe  me.  I 
sit  down  to  die — like  that!  But  it  safe  me,  that  light — 
so.     Ah,  bon  Dieu,  it  was  so  far,  and  I  want  eat  sol" 

Already  he  had  swallowed  the  biscuit. 

"When  did  you  eat  last?"  she  asked,  as  she  urged 
him  on. 

"Two  nights — except  for  one  leetla  piece  of  bread — 
I  fin'  it  in  my  pocket.  Grace!  I  have  travel  so  far. 
Jesu,  I  think  it  ees  ten  thousan'  miles,  I  go.  But  I  mus' 
go  on,  I  mus'  go — certainement." 

The  light  came  nearer  and  nearer.  His  footsteps 
quickened,  though  he  staggered  now  and  then,  and 
went  like  a  horse  that  has  run  its  race,  but  is  driven 
upon  its  course  again,  going  heavily  with  mouth  open 
and  head  thrown  forward  and  down. 

"  But  I  mus'  to  get  there,  an'  you — you  will  to  help 
me,  eh?" 

Again  he  swayed,  but  her  strong  arm  held  him  up. 
As  they  ran  on,  in  a  kind  of  dog-trot,  her  hand  firm 
upon  his  arm — he  seemed  not  to  notice  it — she  became 
conscious,  though  it  was  half  dark,  of  what  sort  of  man 
she  had  saved.  He  was  about  her  own  age,  perhaps  a 
year  or  two  older,  with  little,  if  any,  hair  upon  his  face, 
save  a  slight  mustache.  His  eyes,  deep  sunken  as  they 
were,  she  made  out  were  black,  and  the  face,  though 
drawn  and  famished,  had  a  handsome  look.     Presently 

44 


THE    STROKE    OF    THE     HOUR 

she  gave  him  another  sip  of  brandy,  and  he  quickened 
his  steps,  speaking  to  himself  the  while. 

"  I  haf  to  do  it — if  I  lif.  It  is  to  go,  go,  go,  till  I 
get." 

Now  they  came  to  the  hut  where  the  firelight  flickered 
on  the  window-pane;  the  door  was  flung  open,  and,  as 
he  stumbled  on  the  threshold,  she  helped  him  into  the 
warm  room.     She  almost  pushed  him  over  to  the  fire. 

Divested  of  his  outer  coat,  mufifler,  cap,  and  leggings, 
he  sat  on  a  bench  before  the  fire,  his  eyes  wandering 
from  the  girl  to  the  flames,  and  his  hands  clasping  and 
unclasping  between  his  knees.  His  eyes  dilating  with 
hunger,  he  watched  her  preparations  for  his  supper; 
and  when  at  last — and  she  had  been  but  a  moment — 
it  was  placed  before  him,  his  head  swam,  and  he  turned 
faint  with  the  stress  of  his  longing.  He  would  have 
swallowed  a  basin  of  pea-soup  at  a  draught,  but  she 
stopped  him,  holding  the  basin  till  she  thought  he 
might  venture  again.  Then  came  cold  beans,  and 
some  meat  which  she  toasted  at  the  fire  and  laid  upon 
his  plate.  They  had  not  spoken  since  first  entering  the 
house,  when  tears  had  shone  in  his  eyes,  and  he  had  said: 

"  You  have  safe — ah,  you  have  safe  me,  and  so  I  will 
do  it  yet  by  help  bon  Dieu — yes." 

The  meal  was  done  at  last,  and  he  sat  with  a  great 
dish  of  tea  beside  him,  and  his  pipe  alight. 

"What  time,  if  please?"  he  asked.  "I  t'ink  nine 
hour,  but  no  sure." 

"  It  is  near  nine,"  she  said.  She  hastily  tidied  up 
the  table  after  his  meal,  and  then  came  and  sat  in  her 
chair  over  against  the  wall  of  the  rude  fireplace. 

"Nine — dat  is  good.  The  moon  rise  at  'leven;  den 
I  go.  I  go  on,"  he  said,  "if  you  show  me  de  queeck 
way." 

"  You  go  on — how  can  you  go  on  ?"  she  asked,  almost 
sharply. 

45 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"Will  you  not  to  show  me?"  he  asked. 

"Show  you  what?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

"The  queeck  way  to  Askatoon,"  he  said,  as  though 
surprised  that  she  should  ask.  "They  say  me  if  I  get 
here  you  will  tell  me  queeck  way  to  Askatoon.  Time, 
he  go  so  fas',  an'  I  have  loose  a  day  an'  a  night,  an'  I 
mus'  get  Askatoon  if  I  lif — I  mus'  get  dere  in  time.  It 
is  all  safe  to  de  stroke  of  de  hour,  mais,  after,  it  is — 
bon  Dieu! — it  is  hell  then.     Who  shall  forgif  me — no!" 

"The  stroke  of  the  hour — the  stroke  of  the  hour!" 
It  beat  into  her  brain.  Were  they  both  thinking  of 
the  same  thing  now? 

"  You  will  show  me  queeck  way.  I  mus'  be  Askatoon 
in  two  days,  or  it  is  all  over,"  he  almost  moaned.  "  Is 
no  man  here — I  forget  dat  name,  my  head  go  round  like 
a  wheel;  but  I  know  dis  place,  an'  de  good  God,  He 
help  me  fin'  my  way  to  where  I  call  out,  bien  sur.  Dat 
man's  name  I  have  forget." 

"My  father's  name  is  John  Alroyd,"  she  answered, 
absently,  for  there  were  hammering  at  her  brain  the 
words,  "  The  stroke  of  the  hour." 

"  Ah,  now  I  get — yes.  An'  your  name,  it  is  Loisette 
Alroy' — ah,  I  have  it  in  my  mind  now — Loisette.  I 
not  forget  dat  name,  I  not  forget  you — no." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  the  '  quick '  way  to  Aska- 
toon?" she  asked. 

He  puffed  a  moment  at  his  pipe  before  he  answered 
her.  Presently  he  said,  holding  out  his  pipe,  "  You  not 
like  smoke,  mebbe?" 

She  shook  her  head  in  negation,  making  an  impatient 
gesture. 

"  I  forget  ask  you,"  he  said.  "Dat  journee  make  me 
forget.  When  Injun  Jo,  he  leave  me  with  the  dogs,  an' 
I  wake  up  all  alone,  an'  not  know  my  way — not  like 
Jo,  I  think  I  die,  it  is  so  bad,  so  terrible  in  my  head. 
Not'ing  but  snow,  not'ing.     But  dere  is  de  sun ;  it  shine. 

46 


THE    STROKE    OF    THE    HOUR 

It  say  to  me,  'Wake  up,  Ba'tiste;  it  will  be  all  right 
bime-bye.'  But  all  time  I  t'ink  I  go  mad,  for  I  mus' 
get  Askatoon  before — dat.'' 

She  started.  Had  she  not  used  the  same  word  in 
thinking  of  Askatoon.     "  That,''  she  had  said, 

"Why  do  you  want  to  go  the  'quick'  way  to  Aska- 
toon?" she  asked  again,  her  face  pale,  her  foot  beating 
the  floor  impatiently. 

"To  save  him  before  dat!"  he  answered,  as  though 
she  knew  of  what  he  was  speaking  and  thinking. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked.  She  knew  now,  surely, 
but  she  must  ask  it  nevertheless. 

"  Dat  hanging — of  Haman,"  he  answered.  He  nodded 
to  himself.  Then  he  took  to  gazing  into  the  fire.  His 
lips  moved  as  though  talking  to  himself,  and  the  hand 
that  held  the  pipe  lay  forgotten  on  his  knee. 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  Haman?"  she  asked, 
slowly,  her  eyes  burning. 

"  I  want  safe  him — I  mus'  give  him  free."  He  tapped 
his  breast.  "  It  is  here  to  mak'  him  free."  He  still 
tapped  his  breast. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  frozen  still,  her  face  thin 
and  drawn  and  white;  then  suddenly  the  blood  rushed 
back  into  her  face,  and  a  red  storm  raged  in  her  eyes. 

She  thought  of  the  sister,  younger  than  herself,  whom 
Rube  Haman  had  married  and  driven  to  her  grave  within 
a  year — the  sweet  Lucy,  with  the  name  of  her  father's 
mother.  Lucy  had  been  all  English  in  face  and  tongue, 
a  flower  of  the  west,  driven  to  darkness  by  this  horse- 
deahng  brute,  who,  before  he  was  arrested  and  tried 
for  murder,  was  about  to  marry  Kate  Wimper.  Kate 
Wimper  had  stolen  him  from  Lucy  before  Lucy's  first 
and  only  child  was  born,  the  child  that  could  not  sur- 
vive the  warm  mother-life  withdrawn,  and  so  had  gone 
down  the  valley  whither  the  broken-hearted  mother  had 
fled.     It  was  Kate  Wimper  who,  before  that,  had  way- 

47 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

laid  the  one  man  for  whom  she  herself  had  ever  cared, 
and  drawn  him  from  her  side  by  such  attractions  as  she 
herself  would  keep  for  an  honest  wife,  if  such  she  ever 
chanced  to  be.  An  honest  wife  she  would  have  been 
had  Kate  Wimper  not  crossed  the  straight  path  of  her 
life.  The  man  she  had  loved  was  gone  to  his  end  also, 
reckless  and  hopeless,  after  he  had  thrown  away  his 
chance  of  a  lifetime  with  Loisette  Alroyd.  There  had 
been  left  behind  this  girl,  to  whom  tragedy  had  come 
too  young,  who  drank  humiliation  with  a  heart  as  proud 
as  ever  straightly  set  its  course  through  crooked  ways. 

It  had  hurt  her,  twisted  her  nature  a  little,  given  a 
fountain  of  bitterness  to  her  soul,  which  welled  up  and 
flooded  her  life  sometimes.  It  had  given  her  face  no 
sourness,  but  it  put  a  shadow  into  her  eyes. 

She  had  been  glad  when  Haman  was  condemned  for 
murder,  for  she  believed  he  had  committed  it,  and  ten 
times  hanging  could  not  compensate  for  that  dear  life 
gone  from  their  sight  —  Lucy,  the  pride  of  her  father's 
heart.  She  was  glad  when  Haman  was  condemned, 
because  of  the  woman  who  had  stolen  him  from  Lucy, 
because  of  that  other  man,  her  lover,  gone  out  of  her 
own  life.  The  new  hardness  in  her  rejoiced  that  now 
the  woman,  if  she  had  any  heart  at  all,  must  have  it 
bowed  down  by  this  supreme  humiliation  and  wrung  by 
the  ugly  tragedy  of  the  hempen  rope. 

And  now  this  man  before  her,  this  man  with  a  boy's 
face,  with  the  dark,  luminous -eyes,  whom  she  had  saved 
from  the  frozen  plains,  he  had  that  in  his  breast  which 
would  free  Haman,  so  he  had  said.  A  fury  had  its 
birth  in  her  at  that  moment.  Something  seemed  to 
seize  her  brain  and  master  it,  something  so  big  that  it 
held  all  her  faculties  in  perfect  control,  and  she  felt 
herself  in  an  atmosphere  where  all  life  moved  round  her 
mechanically,  she  herself  the  only  sentient  thing,  so 
much  greater  than  all  she  saw,  or  all  that  she  realized 

48 


THE    STROKE    OF    THE    HOUR 

by  her  subconscious  self.  Everything  in  the  world 
seemed  small.  How  calm  it  was  even  with  the  fury 
within ! 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  quietly — "tell  me  how  you  are 
able  to  save  Haman?" 

"  He  not  kill  Wakely.  It  is  my  brudder  Fadette  dat 
kill  and  get  away.  Haman  he  is  drunk,  and  everyt'ing 
seem  to  say  Haman  he  did  it,  an'  every  one  know  Haman 
is  not  friend  to  Wakely.  So  the  juree  say  he  must  be 
hanging.  But  my  brudder  he  go  to  die  with  hawful 
bad  cold  queeck,  an'  he  send  for  the  priest  an'  for  me, 
an'  tell  all.  I  go  to  Governor  with  the  priest,  an' 
Governor  gif  me  dat  writing  here."  He  tapped  his 
breast,  then  took  out  a  wallet  and  showed  the  paper  to 
her.  "It  is  life  of  dat  Haman,  void!  And  so  I  safe 
him  for  my  brudder.  Dat  was  a  bad  boy,  Fadette. 
He  was  bad  all  time  since  he  was  a  baby,  an'  I  t'ink 
him  pretty  lucky  to  die  on  his  bed,  an'  get  absolve,  and 
go  to  purgatore.  If  he  not  have  luck  like  dat  he  go  to 
hell,  an'  stay  there." 

He  sighed,  and  put  the  wallet  back  in  his  breast  care- 
fully, his  eyes  half  shut  with  weariness,  his  handsome 
face  drawn  and  thin,  his  limbs  lax  with  fatigue. 

"  If  I  get  Askatoon  before  de  time  for  dat,  I  be  happy 
in  my  heart,  for  dat  brudder  ofE  mine  he  get  out  of 
purgatore  bime-bye,  I  t'ink." 

His  eyes  were  almost  shut,  but  he  drew  himself  to- 
gether with  a  great  effort,  and  added  desperately:  "No 
sleep.  If  I  sleep  it  is  all  smash.  Man  say  me  I  can 
get  Askatoon  by  dat  time  from  here,  if  I  go  queeck  way 
across  lak' — it  is  all  froze  now,  dat  lak' — an'  down  dat 
Foxtail  Hills.     Is  it  so,  ma'm'selle?" 

"  By  the  '  quick '  way  if  you  can  make  it  in  time,"  she 
said;  "but  it  is  no  way  for  the  stranger  to  go.  There 
are  always  bad  spots  on  the  ice — it  is  not  safe.  You 
could  not  find  your  way." 

49 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"I  mus'  get  dere  in  time,"  he  said,  desperately. 

"You  can't  do  it — alone,"  she  said.  "Do  you  want 
to  risk  all  and  lose?" 

He  frowned  in  self-suppression.  "  Long  way,  I  no 
can  get  dere  in  time?"  he  asked. 

She  thought  a  moment.  "No;  it  can't  be  done  by 
the  long  way.  But  there  is  another  way — a  third  trail, 
the  trail  the  Gover'ment  men  made  a  year  ago  when 
they  came  to  survey.  It  is  a  good  trail.  It  is  blazed 
in  the  woods  and  staked  on  the  plains.  You  cannot 
miss.  But — but  there  is  so  little  time."  She  looked  at 
the  clock  on  the  wall.  "  You  cannot  leave  here  much 
before  sunrise,  and — " 

"  I  will  leef  when  de  moon  rise,  at  eleven,"  he  inter- 
jected. 

"  You  have  had  no  sleep  for  two  nights,  and  no  food. 
You  can't  last  it  out,"  she  said,  calmly. 

The  deliberate  look  on  his  face  deepened  to  stub- 
bornness. 

"  It  is  my  vow  to  my  brudder — he  is  in  purgatore. 
An'  I  mus'  do  it,"  he  rejoined,  with  an  emphasis  there 
was  no  mistaking.     "You  can  show  me  dat  way?" 

She  went  to  a  drawer  and  took  out  a  piece  of  paper. 
Then,  with  a  point  of  blackened  stick,  as  he  watched 
her  and  listened,  she  swiftly  drew  his  route  for  him. 

"  Yes,  I  get  it  in  my  head,"  he  said.  "  I  go  dat  way, 
but  I  wish — I  wish  it  was  dat  queeck  way.  I  have 
no  fear,  not'ing.  I  go  w'en  dat  moon  rise — I  go,  bien 
sUrr 

"  You  must  sleep,  then,  while  I  get  some  food  for 
you."  She  pointed  to  a  couch  in  a  corner.  "I  will 
wake  you  when  the  moon  rises." 

For  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  realize  her,  for  a 
moment  to  leave  the  thing  which  consumed  him,  and 
put  his  mind  upon  her. 

"You  not  happy — you  not  like  me  here?"  he  asked, 

50 


THE    STROKE    OF    THE    HOUR 

simply ;  then  added,  quickly,  "  I  am  not  bad  man  like 
me  brudder — no." 

Her  eyes  rested  on  him  for  a  moment  as  though 
realizing  him,  while  some  thought  was  working  in  her 
mind  behind. 

"No,  you  are  not  a  bad  man,"  she  said.  "Men  and 
women  are  equal  on  the  plains.  You  have  no  fear — I 
have  no  fear." 

He  glanced  at  the  rifles  on  the  walls,  then  back  at 
her.  "My  mudder,  she  was  good  woman.  I  am  glad 
she  did  not  lif  to  know  what  Fadette  do."  His  eyes 
drank  her  in  for  a  minute,  then  he  said:  "  I  go  sleep  now, 
t'ank  you — till  moontime." 

In  a  moment  his  deep  breathing  filled  the  room,  the 
only  sound  save  for  the  fire  within  and  the  frost  outside. 

Time  went  on.     The  night  deepened. 

Loisette  sat  beside  the  fire,  but  her  body  was  half- 
turned  from  it  toward  the  man  on  the  sofa.  She  was 
not  agitated  outwardly,  but  within  there  was  that  fire 
which  burns  up  life  and  hope  and  all  the  things  that 
come  between  us  and  great  issues.  It  had  burned  up 
everything  in  her  except  one  thought,  one  powerful 
motive.  She  had  been  deeply  wronged,  and  justice 
had  been  about  to  give  "  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth 
for  a  tooth."  But  the  man  lying  there  had  come  to 
sweep  away  the  scaffolding  of  justice — he  had  come  for 
that. 

Perhaps  he  might  arrive  at  Askatoon  before  the 
stroke  of  the  hour,  but  still  he  would  be  too  late,  for 
in  her  pocket  now  was  the  Governor's  reprieve.  The 
man  had  slept  soundly.  His  wallet  was  still  in  his 
breast;   but  the  reprieve  was  with  her. 

If  he  left  without  discovering  his  loss,  and  got  well 
on  his  way,  and  discovered  it  then,  it  would  be  too  late. 
If  he  returned — she  only  saw  one  step  before  her,  she 
s  51 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

would  wait  for  that,  and  deal  with  it  when  it  came. 
She  was  thinking  of  Lucy,  of  her  own  lover  mined  and 
gone.     She  was  calm  in  her  madness. 

At  the  first  light  of  the  moon  she  roused  him.  She 
had  put  food  into  his  fur-coat  pocket,  and  after  he  had 
dnmk  a  bowl  of  hot  pea-soup,  while  she  told  Viim  his 
course  again,  she  opened  the  door,  and  he  passed  out 
into  the  night.  He  started  forward  without  a  word, 
but  came  back  again  and  caught  her  hand. 

"Pardon,"  he  said;  "I  go  forget  everyt'ing  except 
d::!.  But  I  t'ihk  what  you  do  for  me,  it  is  better  than 
a'.'  ~ V  "ife.  Bien  sur.  I  will  come  again,  when  I  get  m}' 
rr.ir.  1  ::  :r.y;:.:  Ah.  but  you  are  beautibvd,"  he  said, 
'■  ar.      :  u  r. : :  :.a'  z  y.     Well,  I  come  again — yes,  a  Dieu." 

He  was  gone  into  the  night,  with  the  moon  silvering 
the  sk}'.  and  the  steely  frost  eating  into  the  sentient 
life  ~f  "h:-  -— *"-em  world.  Inside  the  house,  with  the 
c  ir=  :  :.  : :.  -  iropped  at  the  window  again,  and  the 
f_r:  :,  ^i-z::-i  -'U'::.  Loisett-e  sat  with  the  Governor's 
reprieve  in  her  hand.  Looking  at  it,  she  wondered  why 
i:  '  -  1  in  given  to  Ba'tiste  Caron  and  not  to  a  poUce- 
ordcer.  Ah  yes,  it  was  plain — Ba'tiste  was  a  woodsman 
and  plainsman,  and  cotdd  go  far  more  safely  than  a 
constable,  and  faster.  Ba'tiste  had  reason  for  going 
fast,  and  he  woiild  travel  night  and  day — he  was  travel- 
ling night  and  day  indeed.  And  now  Batiste  might 
get  there,  but  the  reprieve  would  not.  He  would  not 
be  able  to  stop  the  hanging  of  Haman — the  hanging 
of  Rube  Haman. 

A  change  came  over  her.  Her  eyes  blazed,  her 
breast  heaved  now.  She  had  been  so  quiet,  so  cold  and 
still.  But  Ufe  seemed  moving  in  her  once  again.  The 
woman,  Kate  Wimper,  who  had  helped  to  send  two 
people  to  their  graves,  would  now  drink  the  dregs  of 
shame,  if  she  was  capable  of  shame — would  be  robbed 
of  her  happiness,  if  so  be  she  loved  Rube  Haman. 

52 


THE    STROKE    OF    THE     HOUR 

She  stood  up,  as  though  to  put  the  paper  in  the  fire, 
but  paused  suddenly  at  one  thought — Rtibe  Hanian  ivas 
ituiocent  of  tnurder. 

Even  so,  he  was  not  innocent  of  Lucy's  misery  and 
death,  or  the  death  of  the  Httle  one  who  only  opened  its 
eyes  to  the  light  for  an  instant,  and  then  went  into  the 
dark  again.  But  truly  she  was  justified!  When  Haman 
was  gone  things  would  go  on  just  the  same — and  she 
had  been  so  bitter,  her  heart  had  been  pierced  as  with 
a  knife  these  past  three  years.  Again  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  the  fire,  but  suddenly  she  gave  a  little  cry  and 
put  her  hand  to  her  head.     There  was  Ba'tiste! 

What  was  Ba'tiste  to  her?  Nothing — nothing  at  all. 
She  had  saved  his  life — even  if  she  wronged  Ba'tiste, 
her  debt  would  be  paid.  Xo,  she  would  not  think  of 
Ba'tiste.  Yet  she  did  not  put  the  paper  in  the  fire,  but 
in  the  pocket  of  her  dress.  Then  she  went  to  her  room, 
leaving  the  door  open.  The  bed  was  opposite  the  fire, 
and,  as  she  lay  there — she  did  not  take  ofif  her  clothes, 
she  knew  not  why — she  could  see  the  flames.  She 
closed  her  eyes  but  could  not  sleep,  and  more  than 
once  when  she  opened  them  she  thought  she  saw  Ba'tiste 
sitting  there  as  he  had  sat  hours  before.  Why  did 
Ba'tiste  haunt  her  so?  What  was  it  he  had  said  in  his 
broken  English  as  he  went  away  ? — that  he  would  come 
back;   that  she  was  "beautibul." 

All  at  once  as  she  laj''  still,  her  head  throbbing,  her 
feet  and  hands  icy  cold,  she  sat  up  listening. 

"Ah — again  I"  she  cried.  She  sprang  from  her  bed, 
rushed  to  the  door,  and  strained  her  eyes  into  the  silver 
night.  She  called  into  the  icy  void,  "Qui  va  la?  Who 
goes?" 

She  leaned  for^-ard.  her  hand  at  her  ear,  but  no 
sound  came  in  reply.  Once  more  she  called,  but 
nothing  answered.  The  night  was  all  light  and  frost 
and  silence. 

53 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

She  had  only  heard,  in  her  own  brain,  the  iteration 
of  Ba'tiste's  calling.  Would  he  reach  Askatoon  in  time? 
she  wondered,  as  she  shut  the  door.  Why  had  she 
not  gone  with  him  and  attempted  the  shorter  way — 
the  quick  way,  he  had  called  it?  All  at  once  the  truth 
came  back  upon  her,  stirring  her  now.  It  would  do  no 
good  for  Ba'tiste  to  arrive  in  time.  He  might  plead  to 
them  all  and  tell  the  truth  about  the  reprieve,  but  it 
would  not  avail — Rube  Haman  would  hang.  That  did 
not  matter — even  though  he  was  innocent;  but  Ba'tiste's 
brother  would  be  so  long  in  purgatory.  And  even  that 
would  not  matter;  but  she  would  hurt  Ba'tiste — Ba'tiste 
— Ba'tiste!  And  Ba'tiste  he  would  know  that  she — and 
he  had  called  her  "beautibul" — that  she  had — 

With  a  cry  she  suddenly  clothed  herself  for  travel. 
She  put  some  food  and  drink  in  a  leather  bag  and  slung 
them  over  her  shoulder.  Then  she  dropped  on  a  knee 
and  wrote  a  note  to  her  father,  tears  falling  from  her 
eyes.  She  heaped  wood  on  the  fire  and  moved  toward 
the  door.  All  at  once  she  turned  to  the  crucifix  on  the 
wall  which  had  belonged  to  her  mother,  and,  though 
she  had  followed  her  father's  Protestant  religion,  she 
kissed  the  feet  of  the  sacred  figure. 

"  Oh,  Christ,  have  mercy  on  me,  and  bring  me  safe 
to  my  journey's  end — in  time,"  she  said,  breathlessly; 
then  she  went  softly  to  the  door,  leaving  the  dog  behind. 

It  opened,  closed,  and  the  night  swallowed  her.  Like 
a  ghost  she  sped  the  quick  way  to  Askatoon.  She  was 
six  hours  behind  Ba'tiste,  and,  going  hard  all  the  time, 
it  was  doubtful  if  she  could  get  there  before  the  fatal  hour. 

On  the  trail  Ba'tiste  had  taken  there  were  two  huts 
where  he  could  rest,  and  he  had  carried  his  blanket 
slung  on  his  shoulder.  The  way  she  went  gave  no 
shelter  save  the  trees  and  caves  which  had  been  used 
to  cdche  buff^alo  meat  and  hides  in  old  days.  But  be- 
yond this  there  was  danger  in  travelling  by  night,  for 

54 


THE    STROKE    OF    THE    HOUR 

the  springs  beneath  the  ice  of  the  three  lakes  she  must 
cross  made  it  weak  and  rotten  even  in  the  fiercest 
weather,  and  what  would  no  doubt  have  been  death  to 
Ba'tiste  would  be  peril  at  least  to  her.  Why  had  she 
not  gone  with  him  ? 

"  He  had  in  his  face  what  was  in  Lucy's,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  sped  on.  "  She  was  fine  like  him,  ready 
to  break  her  heart  for  those  she  cared  for.  My,  if  she 
had  seen  him  first  instead  of — " 

She  stopped  short,  for  the  ice  gave  way  to  her  foot, 
and  she  only  sprang  back  in  time  to  save  herself.  But 
she  trotted  on,  mile  after  mile,  the  dog-trot  of  the  Ind- 
ian, head  bent  forward,  toeing  in,  breathing  steadily  but 
sharply. 

The  morning  came,  noon,  then  a  fall  of  snow  and  a 
keen  wind,  and  despair  in  her  heart;  but  she  had  passed 
the  danger-spots,  and  now,  if  the  storm  did  not  over- 
whelm her,  she  might  get  to  Askatoon  in  time.  In  the 
midst  of  the  storm  she  came  to  one  of  the  caves  of 
which  she  had  known.  Here  was  wood  for  a  fire,  and 
here  she  ate,  and  in  weariness  unspeakable  fell  asleep. 
When  she  waked  it  was  near  sun-down,  the  storm  had 
ceased,  and,  as  on  the  night  before,  the  sky  was  stained 
with  color  and  drowned  in  splendor. 

"I  will  do  it — I  will  do  it,  Ba'tiste!"  she  called,  and 
laughed  aloud  into  the  sunset.  She  had  battled  with 
herself  all  the  way,  and  she  had  conquered.  Right  was 
right,  and  Rube  Haman  must  not  be  hung  for  what  he 
did  not  do.  Her  heart  hardened  whenever  she  thought 
of  the  woman,  but  softened  again  when  she  thought  of 
Ba'tiste,  who  had  to  suffer  for  the  deed  of  a  brother  in 
"purgatore."  Once  again  the  night  and  its  silence  and 
loneliness  followed  her,  the  only  living  thing  near  the 
trail  till  long  after  midnight.  After  that,  as  she  knew, 
there  were  houses  here  and  there  where  she  might  have 
rested,  but  she  pushed  on  unceasing. 

55 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

At  daybreak  she  fell  in  with  a  settler  going  to  Aska- 
toon  with  his  dogs.  Seeing  how  exhausted  she  was,  he 
made  her  ride  a  few  miles  upon  his  sledge;  then  she 
sped  on  ahead  again  till  she  came  to  the  borders  of 
Askatoon. 

People  were  already  in  the  streets,  and  all  were  tend- 
ing one  way.  She  stopped  and  asked  the  time.  It  was 
within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  the  time  when  Haman 
was  to  pay  another's  penalty.  She  spurred  herself  on, 
and  came  to  the  jail  blind  with  fatigue.  As  she  neared 
the  jail  she  saw  her  father  and  Mickey.  In  amazement 
her  father  hailed  her,  but  she  would  not  stop.  She  was 
admitted  to  the  prison  on  explaining  that  she  had  a 
reprieve.  Entering  a  room  filled  with  excited  people, 
she  heard  a  cry. 

It  came  from  Ba'tiste.  He  had  arrived  but  ten 
minutes  before,  and,  in  the  Sheriff's  presence,  had  dis- 
covered his  loss.     He  had  appealed  in  vain. 

But  now,  as  he  saw  the  girl,  he  gave  a  shout  of  joy 
which  pierced  the  hearts  of  all. 

"Ah,  you  haf  it!  Say  you  haf  it,  or  it  is  no  use — 
he  mus'  hang.  Spik — spik!  Ah,  my  brudder — it  is  to 
do  him  right!     Ah,  Loisette — bon  Dieu,  merci!" 

For  answer  she  placed  the  reprieve  in  the  hands  of 
the  Sheriff.  Then  she  swayed  and  fell  fainting  at  the 
feet  of  Ba'tiste. 

vShe  had  come  at  the  stroke  of  the  hour. 

When  she  left  for  her  home  again  the  Sheriff  kissed 
her. 

And  that  was  not  the  only  time  he  kissed  her.  He 
did  it  again  six  months  later,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
harvest,  when  she  and  Ba'tiste  Caron  started  ofif  on  the 
long  trail  of  life  together.  None  but  Ba'tiste  knew  the 
truth  about  the  loss  of  the  reprieve,  and  to  him  she  was 
"beautibul"  just  the  same,  and  greatly  to  be  desired. 


SHE     SWAYED     AND      FELL      FAINTING      AT     THE      FEET     OF     BA'TISTE 


BUCKM ASTER'S    BOY 

"  I  BIN  waitin'  for  him,  an'  I'll  git  him  ef  it  takes  all 
winter.     I'll  get  him — plumb." 

The  speaker  smoothed  the  barrel  of  his  rifle  with 
mittened  hand,  which  had,  however,  a  trigger-finger 
free.  With  black  eyebrows  twitching  over  sunken  gray 
eyes,  he  looked  doggedly  down  the  frosty  valley  from 
the  ledge  of  high  rock  where  he  sat.  The  face  was 
rough  and  weather-beaten,  with  the  deep  tan  got  in 
the  open  life  of  a  land  of  much  sun  and  little  cloud, 
and  he  had  a  beard  which,  untrimmed  and  growing 
wild,  made  him  look  ten  years  older  than  he  was. 

"  I  bin  waitin'  a  durn  while,"  the  mountain-man 
added,  and  got  to  his  feet  slowly,  drawing  himself  out 
to  six  and  a  half  feet  of  burly  manhood.  The  shoulders 
were,  however,  a  little  stooped,  and  the  head  was  thrust 
forward  with  an  eager,  watchful  look— a  habit  become 
a  physical  characteristic. 

Presently  he  caught  sight  of  a  hawk  sailing  south- 
ward along  the  peaks  of  the  white  icebound  mountains 
above,  on  which  the  sun  shone  with  such  sharp  insistence, 
making  sky  and  mountain  of  a  piece  in  deep  purity  and 
serene  stillness. 

"That  hawk's  seen  him,  mebbe,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment.  "  I  bet  it  went  up  higher  when  it  got  him  in 
its  eye.  Ef  it  'd  only  speak  and  tell  me  where  he  is — ef 
he's  a  day,  or  two  days,  or  ten  days  north." 

Suddenly  his  eyes  blazed  and  his  mouth  opened  in 

57 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

superstitious  amazement,  for  the  hawk  stopped  almost 
directly  overhead  at  a  great  height,  and  swept  round  in 
a  circle  many  times,  waveringly,  uncertainly.  At  last 
it  resumed  its  flight  southward,  sliding  down  the  moun- 
tains like  a  winged  star. 

The  mountaineer  watched  it  with  a  dazed  expression 
for  a  moment  longer,  then  both  hands  clutched  the  rifle 
and  half  swung  it  to  position  involuntarily. 

"  It's  seen  him,  and  it  stopped  to  say  so.  It's  seen 
him,  I  tell  you,  an'  I'll  git  him.  Ef  it's  an  hour,  or  a 
day,  or  a  week,  it's  all  the  same.  I'm  here  watchin', 
waitin'  dead  on  to  him,  the  poison  skunk!" 

The  person  to  whom  he  had  been  speaking  now  rose 
from  the  pile  of  cedar  boughs  where  he  had  been  sitting, 
stretched  his  arms  up,  then  shook  himself  into  place, 
as  does  a  dog  after  sleep.  He  stood  for  a  minute  look- 
ing at  the  mountaineer  with  a  reflective  yet  a  furtively 
sardonic  look.  He  was  not  above  five  feet  nine  inches 
in  height,  and  he  was  slim  and  neat;  and  though  his 
buckskin  coat  and  breeches  were  worn  and  even  frayed 
in  spots,  he  had  an  air  of  some  distinction  and  of  con- 
centrated force.  It  was  a  face  that  men  turned  to  look 
at  twice  and  shook  their  heads  in  doubt  afterward — a 
handsome,  worn,  secretive  face,  in  as  perfect  control  as 
the  strings  of  an  instrument  under  the  bow  of  a  great 
artist.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  without  purpose  in 
life  beyond  the  moment — watchful,  careful,  remorse- 
lessly determined,  an  adventurer's  asset,  the  dial-plate 
of  a  hidden  machinery. 

Now  he  took  the  handsome  meerschaum  pipe  from 
his  mouth,  from  which  he  had  been  puffing  smoke  slowly, 
and  said,  in  a  cold,  yet  quiet  voice,  "  How  long  you 
been  waitin',    Buck?" 

"A  month.  He's  overdue  near  that.  He  always 
comes  down  to  winter  at  Fort  o'  Comfort,  with  his 
string  of  half-breeds,  an'  Injuns,  an'  the  dogs." 

58 


BUCKMASTER'S    BOY 

• 
"No  chance  to  get  him  at  the  Fort?" 

**  It  ain't  so  certain.  They'd  guess  what  I  was  doin' 
there.  It's  surer  here.  He's  got  to  come  down  the 
trail,  an'  when  I  spot  him  by  the  Juniper  clump" — he 
jerked  an  arm  toward  a  spot  almost  a  mile  farther  up 
the  valley — "  I  kin  scoot  up  the  underbrush  a  bit  and 
git  him — plumb.  I  could  do  it  from  here,  sure,  but 
I  don't  want  no  mistake.  Once  only,  jest  one  shot, 
that's  all  I  want,  Sinnet." 

He  bit  off  a  small  piece  of  tobacco  from  a  black  plug 
Sinnet  offered  him,  and  chewed  it  w4th  nervous  fierce- 
ness, his  eyebrows  working,  as  he  looked  at  the  other 
eagerly.  Deadly  as  his  purpose  was,  and  grim  and 
unvarying  as  his  vigil  had  been,  the  loneliness  had  told 
on  him,  and  he  had  grown  hungry  for  a  human  face  and 
human  companionship.  Why  Sinnet  had  come  he  had 
not  thought  to  inquire.  Why  Sinnet  should  be  going 
north  instead  of  south  had  not  occurred  to  him.  He 
only  realized  that  Sinnet  was  not  the  man  he  was  wait- 
ing for  with  murder  in  his  heart;  and  all  that  mattered 
to  him  in  life  was  the  coming  of  his  victim  down  the 
trail.  He  had  w^elcomed  Sinnet  with  a  sullen  eagerness, 
and  had  told  him  in  short,  detached  sentences  the  dark 
story  of  a  wrong  and  a  waiting  revenge,  which  brought 
a  slight  flush  to  Sinnet's  pale  face  and  awakened  a  curi- 
ous light  in  his  eyes. 

"Is  that  your  shack — that  where  you  shake  down?" 
Sinnet  said,  pointing  toward  a  lean-to  in  the  fir-trees  to 
the  right. 

"That's  it.  I  sleep  there.  It's  straight  on  to  the 
Juniper  clump,  the  front  door  is."  He  laughed  vicious- 
ly, grimly.  "  Outside  or  inside,  I'm  on  to  the  Juniper 
clump.  Walk  into  the  parlor.?"  he  added,  and  drew 
open  a  rough-made  door,  so  covered  with  green  cedar 
b6ughs  that  it  seemed  of  a  piece  with  the  surrounding 
underbrush  and  trees.     Indeed,  the  little  hut  was  so 

59 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

# 
constructed  that  it  could  not  be  distinguished  from  the 
woods  even  a  short  distance  away. 

"Can't  have  a  fire,  I  suppose?"  Sinnet  asked. 

"  Not  daytimes.  Smoke  'd  give  me  away  if  he  sus- 
picioned  me,"  answered  the  mountaineer.  "I  don't 
take  no  chances.     Never  can  tell." 

"Water?"  asked  Sinnet,  as  though  interested  in  the 
surroundings,  while  all  the  time  he  was  eying  the 
mountaineer  furtively — as  it  were,  prying  to  the  inner 
man,  or  measuring  the  strength  of  the  outer  man.  He 
lighted  a  fresh  pipe  and  seated  himself  on  a  rough 
bench  beside  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
leaned  on  his  elbows,  watching. 

The  mountaineer  laughed.  It  was  not  a  pleasant 
laugh  to  hear.  "Listen,"  he  said.  "You  bin  a  long 
time  out  West.  You  bin  in  the  mountains  a  good  while. 
Listen." 

There  was  silence.  Sinnet  listened  intently.  He 
heard  the  faint  drip,  drip,  drip  of  water,  and  looked 
steadily  at  the  back  wall  of  the  room. 

"There — rock?"  he  said,  and  jerked  his  head  toward 
the  sound. 

"You  got  good  ears,"  answered  the  other,  and  drew 
aside  a  blanket  which  hung  on  the  back  wall  of  the 
room.  A  wooden  trough  was  disclosed  hanging  under 
a  ledge  of  rock,  and  water  dripped  into  it  softly,  slowly. 

"Almost  providential,  that  rock,"  remarked  Sinnet. 
"  You've  got  your  well  at  your  back  door.  Food — but 
you  can't  go  far,  and  keep  your  eye  on  the  Bend  too," 
he  nodded  toward  the  door,  beyond  which  lay  the 
frost-touched  valley  in  the  early  morning  light  of 
autumn. 

"  Plenty  of  black  squirrels  and  pigeons  come  here  on 
account  of  the  springs  like  this  one,  and  I  get  'em  with 
a  bow  and  arrow.  I  didn't  call  myself  Robin  Hood  and 
Daniel  Boone  not  for  nothin'  when  I  was  knee-high  to 

60 


BUCKM  ASTER'S    BOY 

a  grasshopper."  He  drew  from  a  rough  cupboard  some 
cold  game,  and  put  it  on  the  table,  with  some  scones 
and  a  pannikin  of  water.  Then  he  brought  out  a  small 
jug  of  whiskey  and  placed  it  beside  his  visitor.  They 
began  to  eat. 

"How  d  'ye  cook  without  fire?"  asked  Sinnet. 

"  Fire's  all  right  at  nights.  He'd  never  camp  'twixt 
here  an'  Juniper  Bend  at  night.  The  next  camp's  six 
miles  north  from  here.  He'd  only  come  down  the  valley 
daytimes.  I  studied  it  all  out,  and  it's  a  dead  sure 
thing.  From  daylight  till  dusk  I'm  on  to  him — I  got 
the  trail  in  my  eye." 

He  showed  his  teeth  like  a  wild  dog,  as  his  look  swept 
the  valley.  There  was  something  almost  revolting  in 
his  concentrated  ferocity. 

Sinnet's  eyes  half  closed  as  he  watched  the  moun- 
taineer, and  the  long,  scraggy  hands  and  whipcord  neck 
seemed  to  interest  him  greatly.  He  looked  at  his  own 
slim,  brown  hands  with  a  half  smile,  and  it  was  almost 
as  cruel  as  the  laugh  of  the  other.  Yet  it  had,  too, 
a  knowledge  and  an  understanding  which  gave  it 
humanity. 

"You're  sure  he  did  it?"  Sinnet  asked,  presently, 
after  drinking  a  very  small  portion  of  liquor,  and  toss- 
ing some  water  from  the  pannikin  after  it.  "  You're 
sure  Greevy  killed  your  boy.  Buck?" 

"My  name's  Buckmaster,  ain't  it — ^Jim  Buckmaster? 
Don't  I  know  my  own  name  ?  It's  as  sure  as  that. 
My  boy  said  it  was  Greevy  when  he  was  dying.  He 
told  Bill  Ricketts  so,  and  Bill  told  me  afore  he  went 
East.  Bill  didn't  want  to  tell,  but  he  said  it  was  fair 
I  should  know,  for  my  boy  never  did  nobody  any  harm 
— an'  Greevy's  livin'  on!  But  I'll  git  him.  Right's 
right." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  better  for  the  law  to  hang  him  if 
you've  got  the  proof,  Buck?     A  year  or  so  in  jail,  an' 

6i 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

a  long  time  to  think  over  what's  going  round  his  neck 
on  the  scaffold — wouldn't  that  suit  you,  if  you've  got 
the  proof?" 

A  rigid,  savage  look  came  into  Buckmaster's  face. 

"  I  ain't  lettin'  no  judge  and  jury  do  my  business. 
I'm  for  certain  sure,  not  for  p'r'aps!  An'  I  want  to  do 
it  myself.  Clint  was  only  twenty.  Like  boys  we  was 
together.  I  was  eighteen  when  I  married,  an'  he  come 
when  she  went — jest  a  year — jest  a  year.  An'  ever  since 
then  we  lived  together,  him  an'  me,  an'  shot  together, 
an'  trapped  together,  an'  went  gold-washin'  together 
on  the  Cariboo,  an'  eat  out  of  the  same  dish,  an'  slept 
under  the  same  blanket,  and  jawed  together  nights — 
ever  since  he  was  five,  when  old  Mother  Lablache 
had  got  him  into  pants,  an'  he  was  fit  to  take  the 
trail." 

The  old  man  stopped  a  minute,  his  whipcord  neck 
swelling,  his  lips  twitching.  He  brought  a  fist  down  on 
the  table  with  a  bang.  "The  biggest  little  rip  he  was, 
as  full  of  fun  as  a  squirrel,  an'  never  a  smile — jest  his 
eyes  dancin',  an'  more  sense  than  a  judge.  He  laid 
hold  o'  me,  that  cub  did — it  was  like  his  mother  and 
himself  together;  an'  the  years  flowin'  in  an'  peterin' 
out,  an'  him  gettin'  older,  an'  always  jest  the  same. 
Always  on  rock-bottom,  always  bright  as  a  dollar,  an' 
we  livin'  at  Black  Nose  Lake,  layin'  up  cash  agin'  the 
time  we  was  to  go  South,  an'  set  up  a  house  along  the 
railway,  an'  him  to  git  married.  I  was  for  his  gittin' 
married  same  as  me,  when  we  had  enough  cash.  I  use 
to  think  of  that  when  he  was  ten,  and  when  he  was 
eighteen  I  spoke  to  him  about  it ;  but  he  wouldn't  listen 
— jest  laughed  at  me.  You  remember  how  Clint  used 
to  laugh,  sort  of  low  and  teasin'  like — you  remember 
that  laugh  o'  Clint's,  don't  you?" 

Sinnet's  face  was  toward  the  valley  and  Juniper 
Bend,  but  he  slowly  turned  his  head  and  looked  at 

62 


BUCKMASTER'S    BOY 

Buckmaster  strangely  out  of  his  half-shut  eyes.  He 
took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  slowly. 

"I  can  hear  it  now,"  he  answered,  slowly.  "I  hear 
it  often,  Buck." 

The  old  man  gripped  his  arm  so  suddenly  that  Sinnet 
was  startled— in  so  far  as  anything  could  startle  any 
one  who  had  lived  a  life  of  chance  and  danger  and 
accident  —  and  his  face  grew  a  shade  paler ;  but  he 
did  not  move,  and  Buckmaster's  hand  tightened 
convulsively. 

"You  liked  him,  an'  he  liked  you;  he  first  learnt 
poker  off  you,  Sinnet.  He  thought  you  was  a  tough, 
but  he  didn't  mind  that  no  more  than  I  did.  It  ain't 
for  us  to  say  what  we're  goin'  to  be,  not  always.  Things 
in  life  git  stronger  than  we  are.  You  was  a  tough,  but 
who's  goin'  to  judge  you?  I  ain't;  for  Clint  took  to 
you,  Sinnet,  an'  he  never  went  wrong  in  his  thinkin'. 
God!  he  was  wife  an'  child  to  me — an'  he's  dead — dead 
—dead!" 

The  man's  grief  was  a  painful  thing  to  see.  His 
hands  gripped  the  table,  while  his  body  shook  with 
sobs,  though  his  eyes  gave  forth  no  tears.  It  was  an 
inward  convulsion,  which  gave  his  face  the  look  of 
unrelieved  tragedy  and  suffering — Laocoon  struggling 
with  the  serpents  of  sorrow  and  hatred  which  were 
strangling  him. 

"  Dead  an'  gone,"  he  repeated,  as  he  swayed  to  and 
fro,  and  the  table  quivered  in  his  grasp.  Presently, 
however,  as  though  arrested  by  a  thought,  he  peered 
out  of  the  doorway  toward  Juniper  Bend.  "That 
hawk  seen  him — it  seen  him.  He's  comin',  I  know  it, 
an'  I'll  git  him — -plumb."  He  had  the  mystery  and 
imagination  of  the  mountain-dweller. 

The  rifle  lay  against  the  wall  behind  him,  and  he 
turned  and  touched  it  almost  caressingly.  "I  ain't  let 
go  like  this  since  he  was  killed,  Sinnet.     It  don't  do.     I 

63 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

got  to  keep  myself  stiddy  to  do  the  trick  when  the 
minute  comes.  At  first  I  usen't  to  sleep  at  nights, 
thinkin'  of  Clint,  an'  missin'  him,  an'  I  got  shaky  and 
no  good.  So  I  put  a  cinch  on  myself,  an'  got  to  sleepin' 
again — from  the  full  dusk  to  dawn,  for  Greevy  wouldn't 
take  the  trail  at  night.  I've  kept  stiddy."  He  held  out 
his  hand  as  though  to  show  that  it  was  firm  and  steady, 
but  it  trembled  with  the  emotion  which  had  conquered 
him.     He  saw  it,  and  shook  his  head  angrily. 

"  It  was  seein'  you,  Sinnet.  It  burst  me.  I  ain't 
seen  no  one  to  speak  to  in  a  month,  an'  with  you  sit  tin' 
there,  it  was  like  Clint  an'  me  cuttin'  and  comin'  again 
off  the  loaf  an'  the  knuckle-bone  of  ven'son." 

Sinnet  ran  a  long  finger  slowly  across  his  lips,  and 
seemed  meditating  what  he  should  say  to  the  moun- 
taineer. At  length  he  spoke,  looking  into  Buckmaster's 
face:  "What  was  the  story  Ricketts  told  you?  What 
did  your  boy  tell  Ricketts?  I've  heard,  too,  about  it, 
and  that's  why  I  asked  you  if  you  had  proofs  that 
Greevy  killed  Clint.  Of  course,  Clint  should  know,  and 
if  he  told  Ricketts,  that's  pretty  straight;  but  I'd  like 
to  know  if  what  I  heard  tallies  with  what  Ricketts  heard 
from  Clint.  P'r'aps  it  'd  ease  your  mind  a  bit  to  tell 
it.  I'll  watch  the  Bend — don't  you  trouble  about  that. 
You  can't  do  these  two  things  at  one  time.  I'll  watch 
for  Greevy;  you  give  me  Clint's  story  to  Ricketts.  I 
guess  you  know  I'm  feelin'  for  you,  an'  if  I  was  in  your 
place  I'd  shoot  the  man  that  killed  Clint,  if  it  took  ten 
years.  I'd  have  his  heart's  blood — all  of  it.  Whether 
Greevy  was  in  the  right  or  in  the  wrong,  I'd  have  him — 
plumb." 

Buckmaster  was  moved.  He  gave  a  fierce  exclama- 
tion and  made  a  gesture  of  cruelty.  "  Clint  right  or 
wrong?  There  ain't  no  question  of  that.  My  boy 
wasn't  the  kind  to  be  in  the  wrong.  What  did  he  ever 
do  but  what  was  right?     If  Clint  was  in  the  wrong  I'd 

64 


I  BUCKMASTER'S    BOY 

kill  Greevy  jest  the  same,  for  Greevy  robbed  him  of  all 
the  years  that  was  before  him — only  a  sapling  he  was, 
an'  all  his  growin'  to  do,  all  his  branches  to  widen  an' 
his  roots  to  spread.  But  that  don't  enter  in  it,  his  bein' 
in  the  wrong.  It  was  a  quarrel,  and  Clint  never  did 
Greevy  any  harm.  It  was  a  quarrel  over  cards,  an' 
Greevy  was  drunk,  an'  followed  Clint  out  into  the 
prairie  in  the  night  and  shot  him  like  a  coyote.  Clint 
hadn't  no  chance,  an'  he  jest  lay  there  on  the  ground 
till  morning,  when  Ricketts  and  Steve  Joicey  found 
him.     An'  Clint  told  Ricketts  who  it  was." 

"Why  didn't  Ricketts  tell  it  right  out  at  once.?" 
asked  Sinnet. 

"Greevy  was  his  own  cousin — it  was  in  the  family, 
an'  he  kept  thinkin'  of  Greevy's  gal,  Em'ly.  Her — 
what  '11  it  matter  to  her  ?  She'll  get  married,  an'  she'll 
forgit.  I  know  her,  a  gal  that's  got  no  deep  feelin'  like 
Clint  had  for  me.  But  because  of  her  Ricketts  didn't 
speak  for  a  year.  Then  he  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer, 
an'  he  told  me — seein'  how  I  suffered,  an'  everybody 
hidin'  their  suspicions  from  me,  an'  me  up  here  out  o' 
the  way,  an'  no  account.  That  was  the  feelin'  among 
'em:  What  was  the  good  of  making  things  worse  ?  They 
wasn't  thinkin'  of  the  boy  or  of  Jim  Buckmaster,  his 
father.  They  was  thinkin'  of  Greevy's  gal — to  save 
her  trouble." 

Sinnet's  face  was  turned  toward  Juniper  Bend,  and 
the  eyes  were  fixed,  as  it  were,  on  a  still  more  distant 
object — a  dark,  brooding,  inscrutable  look. 

"Was  that  all  Ricketts  told  you,  Buck?"  The  voice 
was  very  quiet,  but  it  had  a  suggestive  note. 

"  That's  all  Clint  told  Bill  before  he  died.  That  was 
enough." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then,  puflfing  out 
long  clouds  of  smoke,  and  in  a  tone  of  curious  detach- 
ment,  as   though   he  were  telling  something  that  he 

65 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

saw  now  in  the  far  distance,  or  as  a  spectator  of  a  battle 
from  a  far  vantage-point  might  report  to  a  bhnd  man 
standing  near,  Sinnet  said: 

"P'r'aps  Ricketts  didn't  know  the  whole  story; 
p'r'aps  Clint  didn't  know  it  all  to  tell  him;  p'r'aps  Clint 
didn't  remember  it  all.  P'r'aps  he  didn't  remember  any- 
thing except  that  he  and  Greevy  quarrelled,  and  that 
Greevy  and  he  shot  at  each  other  in  the  prairie.  He'd 
only  be  thinking  of  the  thing  that  mattered  most  to 
him — that  his  life  was  over,  an'  that  a  man  had  put  a 
bullet  in  him,  an' — " 

Buckmaster  tried  to  interrupt  him,  but  he  waved  a 
hand  impatiently,  and  continued :  "  As  I  say,  maybe  he 
didn't  remember  everything;  he  had  been  drinkin'  a  bit 
himself,  Clint  had.  He  wasn't  used  to  liquor,  and 
couldn't  stand  much.  Greevy  was  drunk,  too,  and  gone 
off  his  head  with  rage.  He  always  gets  drunk  when  he 
first  comes  south  to  spend  the  winter  with  his  girl 
Em'ly."  He  paused  a  moment,  then  went  on  a  little 
more  quickly.  "  Greevy  was  proud  of  her — couldn't 
even  bear  her  being  crossed  in  any  way;  and  she  has 
a  quick  temper,  and  if  she  quarrelled  with  anybody 
Greevy  quarrelled  too." 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  her,"  broke  in 
Buckmaster,  roughly.  "  She  isn't  in  this  thing.  I'm 
goin'  to  get  Greevy.  I  bin  waitin'  for  him,  an'  I'll  git 
him." 

"You're  going  to  kill  the  man  that  killed  your  boy, 
if  you  can.  Buck;  but  I'm  telling  my  story  in  my  own 
way.  You  told  Rickett's  story;  I'll  tell  what  I've 
heard.  And  before  you  kill  Greevy  you  ought  to  know 
all  there  is  that  anybody  else  knows — or  suspicions 
about  it." 

"  I  know  enough.     Greevy  done  it,  an'  I'm  here." 

With  no  apparent  coherence  and  relevancy  Sinnet 
continued,  but  his  voice  was  not  so  even  as  before. 

66 


BUCKMASTER'S    BOY 

"Em'ly  was  a  girl  that  wasn't  twice  alike.  She  was 
changeable.  First  it  was  one,  then  it  was  another,  and 
she  didn't  seem  to  be  able  to  fix  her  mind.  But  that 
didn't  prevent  her  leadin'  men  on.  She  wasn't  change- 
able, though,  about  her  father.  She  was  to  him  what 
your  boy  was  to  you.  There  she  was  like  you,  ready  to 
give  everything  up  for  her  father." 

"I  tell  y'  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  her,"  said 
Buckmaster,  getting  to  his  feet  and  setting  his  jaws. 
"You  needn't  talk  to  me  about  her.  She'll  git  over 
it.  I'll  never  git  over  what  Greevy  done  to  me  or  to 
Clint  —  jest  twenty,  jest  twenty!  I  got  my  work  to 
do." 

He  took  his  gun  from  the  wall,  slung  it  into  the 
hollow  of  his  arm,  and  turned  to  look  up  the  valley 
through  the  open  doorway. 

The  morning  was  sparkling  with  life — the  life  and 
vigor  which  a  touch  of  frost  gives  to  the  autumn  world 
in  a  country  where  the  blood  tingles  to  the  dry,  sweet 
sting  of  the  air.  Beautiful,  and  spacious,  and  buoyant, 
and  lonely,  the  valley  and  the  mountains  seemed  wait- 
ing, like  a  new-born  world,  to  be  peopled  by  man.  It 
was  as  though  all  had  been  made  ready  for  him — the 
birds  whistling  and  singing  in  the  trees,  the  whisk  of 
the  squirrels  leaping  from  bough  to  bough,  the  per- 
emptory sound  of  the  woodpecker's  beak  against  the 
bole  of  a  tree,  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  as  a  wood-hen 
ran  past — a  waiting,  virgin  world. 

Its  beauty  and  its  wonderful  dignity  had  no  appeal 
to  Buckmaster.  His  eyes  and  mind  were  fixed  on  a 
deed  which  would  stain  the  virgin  wild  with  the  ancient 
crime  that  sent  the  first  marauder  on  human  life  into 
the  wilderness. 

As  Buckmaster's  figure  darkened  the  doorway  Sinnet 
seemed  to  waken  as  from  a  dream,  and  he  got  swiftly  to 
his  feet. 

6  67 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"  Wait — you  wait,  Buck.  You've  got  to  hear  all. 
You  haven't  heard  my  story  yet.     Wait,   I  tell  you." 

His  voice  was  so  sharp  and  insistent,  so  changed,  that 
Buckmaster  turned  from  the  doorway  and  came  back 
into  the  room. 

"  What's  the  use  of  my  hearin'  ?  You  want  me  not  to 
kill  Greevy,  because  of  that  gal.     What's  she  to  me?" 

"Nothing  to  you.  Buck,  but  Clint  was  everything  to 
her." 

The  mountaineer  stood  like  one  petrified. 

"What's  that — what's  that  you  say?  It's  a  damn 
lie!" 

"  It  wasn't  cards — the  quarrel,  not  the  real  quarrel. 
Greevy  found  Clint  kissing  her.  Greevy  wanted  her 
to  marry  Gatineau,  the  lumber-king.  That  was  the 
quarrel." 

A  snarl  was  on  the  face  of  Buckmaster.  "  Then  she'll 
not  be  sorry  when  I  git  him.  It  took  Clint  from  her  as 
well  as  from  me."     He  turned  to  the  door  again. 

"But,  wait,  Buck,  wait  one  minute  and  hear — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  low,  exultant  growl,  and  he 
saw  Buckmaster's  rifle  clutched  as  a  hunter,  stooping, 
clutches  his  gun  to  fire  on  his  prey. 

"Quick,  the  spy-glass!"  he  flung  back  at  Sinnet. 
"It's  him,  but  I'll  make  sure." 

Sinnet  caught  the  telescope  from  the  nails  where  it 
hung,  and  looked  out  toward  Juniper  Bend.  "  It's 
Greevy — and  his  girl,  and  the  half-breeds,"  he  said, 
with  a  note  in  his  voice  that  almost  seemed  agitation, 
and  yet  few  had  ever  seen  Sinnet  agitated.  "Em'ly 
must  have  gone  up  the  trail  in  the  night." 

"It's  my  turn  now,"  the  mountaineer  said,  hoarsely, 
and,  stooping,  slid  away  quickly  into  the  undergrowth. 

Sinnet  followed,  keeping  near  him,  neither  speaking. 
For  a  half  mile  they  hastened  on,  and  now  and  then 
Buckmaster  drew  aside  the  bushes,  and  looked  up  the 

68 


BUCKMASTER'S    BOY 

valley,  to  keep  Greevy  and  his  bois  bnilees  in  his  eye. 
Just  so  had  he  and  his  son  and  Sinnet  stalked  the 
wapiti  and  the  red  deer  along  these  mountains;  but 
this  was  a  man  that  Buckmaster  was  stalking  now,  with 
none  of  the  joy  of  the  sport  which  had  been  his  since 
a  lad;  only  the  malice  of  the  avenger.  The  lust  of  a 
mountain  feud  was  on  him;  he  was  pursuing  the  price 
of  blood. 

At  last  Buckmaster  stopped  at  a  ledge  of  rock  just 
above  the  trail.  Greevy  would  pass  below,  within  three 
hundred  yards  of  his  rifle.  He  turned  to  Sinnet  with 
cold  and  savage  eyes.  "  You  go  back,"  he  said.  "It's 
my  business.  I  don't  want  you  to  see.  You  don't 
want  to  see,  then  you  won't  know,  and  you  won't  need 
to  lie.  You  said  that  the  man  that  killed  Clint  ought 
to  die.  He's  going  to  die,  but  it's  none  o'  your  business. 
I  want  to  be  alone.  In  a  minute  he'll  be  where  I  kin 
git  him — plumb.  You  go,  Sinnet — right  off.  It's  my 
business." 

There  was  a  strange,  desperate  look  in  Sinnet's  face; 
it  was  as  hard  as  stone,  but  his  eyes  had  a  light  of 
battle  in  them. 

"  It's  my  business  right  enough,  Buck,"  he  said,  "and 
you're  not  going  to  kill  Greevy.  That  girl  of  his  has 
lost  her  lover,  your  boy.  It's  broke  her  heart  almost, 
and  there's  no  use  making  her  an  orphan  too.  She 
can't  stand  it.  She's  had  enough.  You  leave  her  father 
alone — you  hear  me,  let  up!"  He  stepped  between 
Buckmaster  and  the  ledge  of  rock  from  which  the 
mountaineer  was  to  take  aim. 

There  was  a  terrible  look  in  Buckmaster's  face.  He 
raised  his  single-barrelled  rifle,  as  though  he  would  shoot 
Sinnet;  but,  at  the  moment,  he  remembered  that  a 
shot  would  warn  Greevy,  and  that  he  might  not  have 
time  to  reload.     He  laid  his  rifle  against  a  tree  swiftly. 

"Git  away  from  here,"  he  said,  with  a  strange  rattle 

69 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

in  his  throat.  "  Git  away  quick ;  he'll  be  down  past 
here  in  a  minute." 

Sinnet  pulled  himself  together  as  he  saw  Buckmaster 
snatch  at  a  great  clasp-knife  in  his  belt.  He  jumped 
and  caught  Buckmaster's  wrist  in  a  grip  like  a  vise. 

"Greevy  didn't  kill  him,  Buck,"  he  said.  But  the 
mountaineer  was  gone  mad,  and  did  not  grasp  the 
meaning  of  the  words.  He  twined  his  left  arm  round 
the  neck  of  Sinnet,  and  the  struggle  began,  he  fighting 
to  free  Sinnet's  hand  from  his  wrist,  to  break  Sinnet's 
neck.  He  did  not  realize  what  he  was  doing.  He  only 
knew  that  this  man  stood  between  him  and  the  mur- 
derer of  his  boy,  and  all  the  ancient  forces  of  barbarism 
were  alive  in  him.  Little  by  little  they  drew  to  the 
edge  of  the  rock,  from  which  there  was  a  sheer  drop 
of  two  hundred  feet.  Sinnet  fought  like  a  panther  for 
safety,  but  no  sane  man's  strength  could  withstand 
the  demoniacal  energy  that  bent  and  crushed  him. 
Sinnet  felt  his  strength  giving.  Then  he  said,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper:  "Greevy  didn't  kill  him.  I  killed  him, 
and—" 

At  that  moment  he  was  borne  to  the  ground  with  a 
hand  on  his  throat,  and  an  instant  after  the  knife  went 
home. 

Buckmaster  got  to  his  feet  and  looked  at  his  victim 
for  an  instant,  dazed  and  wild;  then  he  sprang  for  his 
gun.  As  he  did  so  the  words  that  Sinnet  had  said  as 
they  struggled  rang  in  his  ears,  "Greevy  didn't  kill  him; 
I  killed  him!" 

He  gave  a  low  cry  and  turned  back  toward  Sinnet, 
who  lay  in  a  pool  of  blood. 

Sinnet  was  speaking.  He  went  and  stooped  over 
him. 

"  Em'ly  threw  me  over  for  Clint,"  the  voice  said, 
huskily,  "  and  I  followed  to  have  it  out  with  Clint.  So 
did  Greevy,  but  Greevy  was  drunk.     I  saw  them  meet. 

7Q 


LITTLE     BY      LITTLE     THEY      DREW     TO     THE      EDGE      OF      THE     ROCK 


BUCKMASTER'S    BOY 

I  was  hid.  I  saw  that  CHnt  would  kill  Grccvy,  and  I 
fired.  I  was  off  my  head — I'd  never  cared  for  any 
woman  before,  and  Greevy  was  her  father.  Clint  was 
off  his  head  too.  He  had  called  me  names  that  day — a 
cardsharp,  and  a  liar,  and  a  thief,  and  a  skunk,  he  called 
me,  and  I  hated  him  just  then,  Greevy  fired  twice — 
wide.  He  didn't  know  but  what  he  killed  Clint,  but  he 
didn't.     I  did.     So  I  tried  to  stop  you.  Buck — " 

Life  was  going  fast,  and  speech  failed  him;  but  he 
opened  his  eyes  again  and  whispered :  "  I  didn't  want  to 
die,  Buck.  I  am  only  thirty-five,  and  it's  too  soon;  but 
it  had  to  be.  Don't  look  that  way,  Buck.  You  got 
the  man  that  killed  him — plumb.  But  Em'Iy  didn't 
play  fair  with  me — made  a  fool  of  me,  the  only  time  in 
my  life  I  ever  cared  for  a  woman.  You  leave  Greevy 
alone,  Buck,  and  tell  Em'ly  for  me  I  wouldn't  let  you 
kill  her  father." 

"You — Sinnet — you,  you  done  it!  Why,  he'd  have 
fought  for  you.     You — done  it — to  him — to  Clint!" 

Now  that  the  blood-feud  had  been  satisfied,  a  great 
change  came  over  the  mountaineer.  He  had  done  his 
work,  and  the  thirst  for  vengeance  was  gone.  Greevy 
he  had  hated,  but  this  man  had  been  with  him  in  many 
a  winter's  hunt.  His  brain  could  hardly  grasp  the 
tragedy — it  had  all  been  too  sudden. 

Suddenly  he  stooped  down.  "  Sinnet,"  he  said,  "  ef 
there  was  a  woman  in  it,  that  makes  all  the  difference. 
Sinnet,  ef — " 

But  Sinnet  was  gone  upon  a  long  trail  that  led  into 
an  illimitable  wilderness.  With  a  moan  the  old  man 
ran  to  the  ledge  of  rock.     Greevy  and  his  girl  were  below. 

"When  there's  a  woman  in  it — !"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
of  helplessness  and  misery,  and  watched  her  till  she 
disappeared  from  view.  Then  he  turned,  and,  lifting 
up  in  his  arms  the  man  he  had  killed,  carried  him  into 
the  deeper  woods. 

71 


TO-MORROW 


"My,  nothing's  the  matter  with  the  world  to-day! 
It's  so  good  it  almost  hurts." 

She  raised  her  head  from  the  white  petticoat  she  was 
ironing,  and  gazed  out  of  the  doorway  and  down  the 
valley  with  a  warm  light  in  her  eyes  and  a  glowing  face. 
The  snow-tipped  mountains  far  above  and  away,  the 
fir-covered,  cedar-ranged  foothills,  and,  lower  down, 
the  wonderful  maple  and  ash  woods,  with  their  hundred 
autumn  tints,  all  merging  to  one  soft,  red  tone,  the  roar 
of  the  stream  tumbling  down  the  ravine  from  the 
heights,  the  air  that  braced  the  nerves  like  wine — it  all 
seemed  to  be  part  of  her,  the  passion  of  life  correspond- 
ing to  the  passion  of  living  in  her. 

After  watching  the  scene  dreamily  for  a  moment,  she 
turned  and  laid  the  iron  she  had  been  using  upon  the 
hot  stove  near.  Taking  up  another,  she  touched  it  with 
a  moistened  finger  to  test  the  heat,  and,  leaning  above 
the  table  again,  passed  it  over  the  linen  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, smiling  at  something  that  was  in  her  mind. 
Presently  she  held  the  petticoat  up,  turned  it  round, 
then  hung  it  in  front  of  her,  eying  it  with  critical 
pleasure. 

'' To-morrow  V  she  said,  nodding  at  it.  "You  won't 
be  seen,  I  suppose,  but  /'//  know  you're  nice  enough 
for  a  queen — and  that's  enough  to  know." 

72 


TO-MORROW 

She  blushed  a  little,  as  though  some  one  had  heard 
her  words  and  was  looking  at  her,  then  she  carefully 
laid  the  petticoat  over  the  back  of  a  chair.  "  No 
queen's  got  one  whiter,  if  I  do  say  it,"  she  continued, 
tossing  her  head. 

In  that,  at  any  rate,  she  was  right,  for  the  water  of 
the  mountain  springs  was  pure,  the  air  was  clear,  and 
the  sun  was  clarifying;  and  little  ornamented  or  frilled 
as  it  was,  the  petticoat  was  exquisitely  soft  and  delicate. 
It  would  have  appealed  to  more  eyes  than  a  woman's. 

"To-morrow!"  She  nodded  at  it  again  and  turned 
again  to  the  bright  world  outside.  With  arms  raised 
and  hands  resting  against  the  timbers  of  the  doorway, 
she  stood  dreaming.  A  flock  of  pigeons  passed  with 
a  whir  not  far  away,  and  skirted  the  woods  making 
down  the  valley.  She  watched  their  flight  abstractedly, 
yet  with  a  subconscious  sense  of  pleasure.  Life — they 
were  Life,  eager,  buoyant,  belonging  to  this  wild  region, 
where  still  the  heart  could  feel  so  much  at  home,  where 
the  great  world  was  missed  so  little. 

Suddenly,  as  she  gazed,  a  shot  rang  out  down  the 
valley,  and  two  of  the  pigeons  came  tumbling  to  the 
ground,  a  stray  feather  floating  after.  With  a  startled 
exclamation  she  took  a  step  forward.  Her  brain  be- 
came confused  and  disturbed.  She  had  looked  out  on 
Eden,  and  it  had  been  ravaged  before  her  eyes.  She 
had  been  thinking  of  to-morrow,  and  this  vast  prospect 
of  beauty  and  serenity  had  been  part  of  the  pageant  in 
which  it  moved.  Not  the  valley  alone  had  been  ma- 
rauded, but  that  "To-morrow,"  and  all  it  meant  to  her. 

Instantly  the  valley  had  become  clouded  over  for 
her,  its  glory  and  its  grace  despoiled.  She  turned  back 
to  the  room  where  the  white  petticoat  lay  upon  the 
chair,  but  stopped  with  a  little  cry  of  alarm. 

A  man  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  He 
had  entered  stealthily  by  the  back  door,  and  had  waited 

73 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

for  her  to  turn  round.  He  was  haggard  and  travel- 
stained,  and  there  was  a  feverish  Hght  in  his  eyes.  His 
fingers  trembled  as  they  adjusted  his  belt,  which  seemed 
too  large  for  him.     Mechanically  he  buckled  it  tighter. 

"You're  Jenny  Long,  ain't  you?"  he  asked.  "I  beg 
pardon  for  sneakin'  in  like  this,  but  they're  after  me, 
some  ranchers  and  a  constable — one  o'  the  Riders  of 
the  Plains.  I've  been  tryin'  to  make  this  house  all  day. 
You're  Jenny  Long,  ain't  you?" 

She  had  plenty  of  courage,  and,  after  the  first  in- 
stant of  shock,  she  had  herself  in  hand.  She  had  quick- 
ly observed  his  condition,  had  marked  the  candor  of  the 
eye  and  the  decision  and  character  of  the  face,  and 
doubt  of  him  found  no  place  in  her  mind.  She  had  the 
keen  observation  of  the  dweller  in  lonely  places,  where 
every  traveller  has  the  potentialities  of  a  foe,  while  the 
door  of  hospitality  is  opened  to  him  after  the  custom  of 
the  wilds.  Year  in,  year  out,  since  she  was  a  little  girl 
and  came  to  live  here  with  her  Uncle  Sanger  when  her 
father  died — her  mother  had  gone  before  she  could 
speak — travellers  had  halted  at  this  door,  going  North 
or  coming  South,  had  had  bite  and  sup,  and  bed,  maybe, 
and  had  passed  on,  most  of  them  never  to  be  seen  again. 
More  than  that,  too,  there  had  been  moments  of  peril, 
such  as  when,  alone,  she  had  faced  two  wood-thieves 
with  a  revolver,  as  they  were  taking  her  mountain- 
pony  with  them,  and  herself  had  made  them  "  hands- 
up,"  and  had  marched  them  into  a  prospector's  camp 
five  miles  away. 

She  had  no  doubt  about  the  man  before  her.  What- 
ever he  had  done,  it  was  nothing  dirty  or  mean — of  that 
she  was  sure. 

"Yes,  I'm  Jenny  Long,"  she  answered.  "What  have 
you  done?     What  are  they  after  you  for?" 

"Oh!  to-morrow,"  he  answered — "to-morrow  I  got 
to  git  to  Bindon.     It's  life  or  death.     I  come  from  pros- 

74 


'THEY      SHOT     AT      ME     AN'      HURT      ME' 


TO-MORROW 

pecting  two  hundred  miles  up  North.  I  done  it  in  two 
days  and  a  half.  My  horse  dropped  dead — I'm  near 
dead  myself.  I  tried  to  borrow  another  horse  up  at 
Clancey's,  and  at  Scotton's  Drive,  but  they  didn't  know 
me,  and  they  bounced  me.  So  I  borrowed  a  horse  off 
Weigall's  paddock,  to  make  for  here — to  you.  I  didn't 
mean  to  keep  that  horse.  Hell,  I'm  no  horse-stealer! 
But  I  couldn't  explain  to  them,  except  that  I  had  to  git 
to  Bindon  to  save  a  man's  life.  If  people  laugh  in  your 
face,  it's  no  use  explainin'.  I  took  a  roan  from  Weigall's, 
and  they  got  after  me.  'Bout  six  miles  up  they  shot  at 
me  an'  hurt  me." 

She  saw  that  one  arm  hung  limp  at  his  side  and  that 
his  wrist  was  wound  with  a  red  bandana. 

She  started  forward.  "Are  you  hurt  bad?  Can  I 
bind  it  up  or  wash  it  for  you?  I've  got  plenty  of  hot 
water  here,  and  it's  bad  letting  a  wound  get  stale." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  washed  the  hole  clean  in  the 
creek  below.  I  doubled  on  them.  I  had  to  go  down 
past  your  place  here,  and  then  work  back  to  be  rid  of 
them.  But  there's  no  telling  when  they'll  drop  onto 
the  game,  and  come  back  for  me.  My  only  chance  was 
to  git  to  you.  Even  if  I  had  a  horse,  I  couldn't  make 
Bindon  in  time.  It's  two  days  round  the  gorge  by 
trail.  A  horse  is  no  use  now — I  lost  too  much  time  since 
last  night.  I  can't  git  to  Bindon  to-morrow  in  time,  if 
I  ride  the  trail." 

"The  river?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

"It's  the  only  way.  It  cuts  off  fifty  mile.  That's 
why  I  come  to  you." 

She  frowned  a  little,  her  face  became  troubled,  and 
her  glance  fell  on  his  arm  nervously.  "  l|(Vhat  've  I  got 
to  do  with  it?"  she  asked,  almost  sharply. 

"  Even  if  this  was  all  right " — he  touched  the  wounded 
arm — "  I  couldn't  take  the  rapids  in  a  canoe.  I  don't 
know  them,  an'  it  would  be  sure  death.     That's  not  the 

75 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

worst,  for  there's  a  man  at  Bindon  would  lose  his  life — 
p'r'aps  twenty  men — I  dunno;  but  one  man  sure.  To- 
morrow, it's  go  or  stay  with  him.  He  was  good — -Lord, 
but  he  was  good! — to  my  little  gal  years  back.  She'd 
only  been  married  to  me  a  year  when  he  saved  her, 
riskin'  his  own  life.  No  one  else  had  the  pluck.  My 
little  gal,  only  twenty  she  was,  an'  pretty  as  a  picture, 
an'  me  fifty  miles  away  when  the  fire  broke  out  in  the 
hotel  where  she  was.  He'd  have  gone  down  to  hell  for 
a  friend,  an'  he  saved  my  little  gal.  I  had  her  for  five 
years  after  that.  That's  why  I  got  to  git  to  Bindon 
to-morrow.  If  I  don't,  I  don't  want  to  see  to-morrow. 
I  got  to  go  down  the  river  to-night." 

She  knew  what  he  was  going  to  ask  her.  She  knew 
he  was  thinking  what  all  the  North  knew,  that  she  was 
the  first  person  to  take  the  Dog  Nose  Rapids  in  a  canoe, 
down  the  great  river  scarce  a  stone' s-throw  from  her 
door;  and  that  she  had  done  it  in  safety  many  times. 
Not  in  all  the  West  and  North  were  there  a  half  dozen 
people  who  could  take  a  canoe  to  Bindon,  and  they 
were  not  here.  She  knew  that  he  meant  to  ask  her 
to  paddle  him  down  the  swift  stream,  with  its  murder- 
ous rocks,  to  Bindon.  She  glanced  at  the  white  petti- 
coat on  the  chair,  and  her  lips  tightened.  To-morrow — 
to-morrow  was  as  much  to  her  here  as  it  would  be  to 
this  man  before  her,  or  the  man  he  would  save  at 
Bindon. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  hardening  her 
heart. 

"  Can't  you  see  ?  I  want  you  to  hide  me  here  till 
to-night.  There's  a  full  moon,  an'  it  would  be  as  plain 
goin'  as  by  d§,y.  They  told  me  about  you  up  North, 
and  I  said  to  myself,  '  If  I  git  to  Jenny  Long,  an'  tell 
her  about  my  friend  at  Bindon,  an'  my  little  gal,  she'll 
take  me  down  to  Bindon  in  time.'  My  little  gal  would 
have  paid  her  own  debt  if  she'd  ever  had  the  chance. 

76 


TO-MORROW 

She  didn't — she's  lying  up  on  Mazy  Mountain.  But 
one  woman  '11  do  a  lot  for  the  sake  of  another  woman. 
Say,  you'll  do  it,  won't  you?  If  I  don't  git  there  by 
to-morrow  noon,  it's  no  good." 

She  would  not  answer.  He  was  asking  more  than 
he  knew.  Why  should  she  be  sacrificed?  Was  it  her 
duty  to  pay  the  "little  gal's  debt,"  to  save  the  man  at 
Bindon?  To-morrow  was  to  be  the  great  day  in  her 
own  life.  The  one  man  in  all  the  world  was  coming  to 
marry  her  to-morrow.  After  four  years'  waiting,  after 
a  bitter  quarrel  in  which  both  had  been  to  blame,  he 
was  coming  from  the  mining  town  of  Selby  to  marry 
her  to-morrow. 

"What  will  happen?  Why  will  your  friend  lose  his 
life  if  you  don't  get  to  Bindon?" 

"By  noon  to-morrow,  by  twelve  o'clock  noon;  that's 
the  plot;  that's  what  they've  schemed.  Three  days 
ago,  I  heard.  I  got  a  man  free  from  trouble  North — he 
was  no  good,  but  I  thought  he  ought  to  have  another 
chance,  and  I  got  him  free.  He  told  me  of  what  was 
to  be  done  at  Bindon.  There'd  been  a  strike  in  the 
mine,  an'  my  friend  had  took  it  in  hand  with  knuckle- 
dusters on.  He  isn't  the  kind  to  fell  a  tree  with  a  jack- 
knife.  Then  three  of  the  strikers  that  had  been  turned 
away — they  was  the  ringleaders — they  laid  a  plan  that  'd 
make  the  devil  sick.  They've  put  a  machine  in  the 
mine,  an'  timed  it,  an'  it  '11  go  off  when  my  friend  comes 
out  of  the  mine  at  noon  to-morrow." 

Her  face  was  pale  now,  and  her  eyes  had  a  look  of 
pain  and  horror.  Her  man — him  that  she  was  to  marry 
— was  the  head  of  a  mine  also  at  Selby,  forty  miles 
beyond  Bindon,  and  the  horrible  plot  came  home  to 
her  with  piercing  significance. 

"Without  a  second's  warning,"  he  urged,  "to  go  like 
that,  the  man  that  was  so  good  to  my  little  gal,  an'  me 
with   a  chance   to   save   him,   an'   others  too,   p'r'aps. 

77 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

You  won't  let  it  be.     Say,  I'm  pinnin'  my  faith  to  you. 
m — 

Suddenly  he  swayed.  She  caught  him,  held  him,  and 
lowered  him  gently  in  a  chair.  Presently  he  opened 
his  eyes.  "It's  want  o'  food,  I  suppose,"  he  said.  "If 
you've  got  a  bit  of  bread  and  meat — I  must  keep  up." 

She  went  to  a  cupboard,  but  suddenly  turned  toward 
him  again.  Her  ears  had  caught  a  sound  outside  in  the 
underbrush.  He  had  heard  also,  and  he  half  staggered 
to  his  feet. 

"Quick — in  here!"  she  said,  and,  opening  a  door, 
pushed  him  inside.  "  Lie  down  on  my  bed,  and  I'll 
bring  you  vittles  as  quick  as  I  can,"  she  added.  Then 
she  shut  the  door,  turned  to  the  ironing-board,  and  took 
up  the  iron,  as  the  figure  of  a  man  darkened  the  door- 
way. 

"Hello,  Jinny,  fixin'  up  for  to-morrow?"  the  man 
said,  stepping  inside,  with  a  rifle  under  his  arm  and 
some  pigeons  in  his  hand. 

She  nodded  and  gave  him  an  impatient,  scrutinizing 
glance.     His  face  had  a  fatuous  kind  of  smile. 

"Been  celebrating  the  pigeons?"  she  asked,  dryly, 
jerking  her  head  toward  the  two  birds,  which  she  had 
seen  drop  from  her  Eden  skies  a  short  time  before. 

"I  only  had  one  swig  of  whiskey,  honest  Injun!"  he 
answered.  "  I  s'pose  I  might  have  waited  till  to-morrow, 
but  I  was  dead-beat.  I  got  a  bear  over  by  the  Ten- 
mile  Reach,  and  I  was  tired.  I  ain't  so  young  as  I  used 
to  be,  and,  anyhow,  what's  the  good  ?  What's  ahead  of 
me?  You're  going  to  git  married  to-morrow  after  all 
these  years  we  bin  together,  and  you're  going  down  to 
Selby  from  the  mountains,  where  I  won't  see  you,  not 
once  in  a  blue  moon.  Only  that  old  trollop.  Mother 
Massy,  to  look  after  me." 

"  Come  down  to  Selby  and  live  there.  You'll  be 
welcome  by  Jake  and  me." 

78 


TO-MORROW 

He  stood  his  gun  in  the  corner  and,  swinging  the 
pigeons  in  his  hand,  said:  "Me  Hve  out  of  the  moun- 
tains! Don't  you  know  better  than  that?  I  couldn't 
breathe,  and  I  wouldn't  want  to  breathe.  I've  got 
my  shack  here,  I  got  my  fur  business,  and  they're  still 
fond  of  whiskey  up  North!"  He  chuckled  to  himself, 
as  he  thought  of  the  illicit  still  farther  up  the  mountain 
behind  them.  "  I  make  enough  to  live  on,  and  I've  put 
a  few  dollars  by,  though  I  won't  have  so  many  after 
to-morrow,  after  I've  given  you  a  little  pile.  Jinny." 

"  P'r'aps  there  won't  be  any  to-morrow,  as  you  ex- 
pect," she  said,  slowly. 

The  old  man  started.  "What!  you  and  Jake  ain't 
quarrelled  again?  You  ain't  broke  it  off  at  the  last 
moment,  same  as  before?  You  ain't  had  a  letter  from 
Jake?"  He  looked  at  the  white  petticoat  on  the  chair- 
back,  and  shook  his  head  in  bewilderment. 

"I've  had  no  letter,"  she  answered.  "I've  had  no 
letter  from  Selby  for  a  month.  It  was  all  settled  then, 
and  there  was  no  good  writing,  when  he  was  coming 
to-morrow  with  the  minister  and  the  license.  Who  do 
you  think  'd  be  postman  from  Selby  here  ?  It  must 
have  cost  him  ten  dollars  to  send  the  last  letter." 

"Then  what's  the  matter?  I  don't  understand,"  the 
old  man  urged,  querulously.  He  did  not  want  her  to 
marry  and  leave  him,  but  he  wanted  no  more  troubles; 
he  did  not  relish  being  asked  awkward  questions  by 
every  mountaineer  he  met  as  to  why  Jenny  Long  didn't 
marry  Jake  Lawson. 

"There's  only  one  way  that  I  can  be  married  to- 
morrow," she  said,  at  last,  "and  that's  by  you  taking 
a  man  down  the  Dog  Nose  Rapids  to  Bindon  to- 
night." 

He  dropped  the  pigeons  on  the  floor,  dumfounded. 
"What  in—" 

He  stopped  short,  in  sheer  incapacity  to  go  further. 

79 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Jenny  had  not  always  been  easy  to  understand,  but  she 
was  wholly  incomprehensible  now. 

She  picked  up  the  pigeons  and  was  about  to  speak, 
but  she  glanced  at  the  bedroom  door,  where  her  ex- 
hausted visitor  had  stretched  himself  on  her  bed,  and 
beckoned  her  uncle  to  another  room. 

"There's  a  plate  of  vittles  ready  for  you  in  there," 
she  said.     "  I'll  tell  you  as  you  eat." 

He  followed  her  into  the  little  living-room  adorned 
by  the  trophies  of  his  earlier  achievements  with  gun  and 
rifle,  and  sat  down  at  the  table,  where  some  food  lay 
covered  by  a  clean  white  cloth. 

"  No  one  '11  ever  look  after  me  as  you've  done.  Jinny," 
he  said,  as  he  lifted  the  cloth  and  saw  the  palatable 
dish  ready  for  him.  Then  he  remembered  again  about 
to-morrow  and  the  Dog  Nose  Rapids. 

"What's  it  all  about.  Jinny?  What's  that  about  my 
canoeing  a  man  down  to  Bindon?" 

"Eat,  uncle,"  she  said,  more  softly  than  she  had  yet 
spoken,  for  his  words  about  her  care  of  him  had  brought 
a  moisture  to  her  eyes.  "  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute  and 
tell  you  all  about  it." 

"Well,  it's  about  took  away  my  appetite,"  he  said. 
"I  feel  a  kind  of  sinking."  He  took  from  his  pocket 
a  bottle,  poured  some  of  its  contents  into  a  tin  cup,  and 
drank  it  off. 

"  No,  I  suppose  you  couldn't  take  a  man  down  to 
Bindon,"  she  said,  as  she  saw  his  hand  trembling  on 
the  cup.  Then  she  turned  and  entered  the  other  room 
again.  Going  to  the  cupboard,  she  hastily  heaped  a 
plate  with  food,  and,  taking  a  dipper  of  water  from  a 
pail  near  by,  she  entered  her  bedroom  hastily  and 
placed  what  she  had  brought  on  a  small  table,  as  her 
visitor  rose  slowly  from  the  bed. 

He  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  made  a  protesting 
gesture. 

80 


TO-MORROW 

"I  can't  tell  you  anything  yet,"  she  said. 

"Who  was  it  come?"  he  asked. 

"My  uncle — I'm  going  to  tell  him." 

"The  men  after  me  may  git  here  any  minute,"  he 
urged,  anxiously. 

"They'd  not  be  coming  into  my  room,"  she  answered, 
flushing  slightly. 

"Can't  you  hide  me  down  by  the  river  till  we  start?" 
he  asked,  his  eyes  eagerly  searching  her  face.  He  was 
assuming  that  she  would  take  him  down  the  river;  but 
she  gave  no  sign. 

"  I've  got  to  see  if  he'll  take  you  first?"  she  answered. 

"  He — your  uncle,  Tom  Sanger  ?  He  drinks,  I've 
heard.     He'd  never  git  to  Bindon." 

She  did  not  reply  directly  to  his  words.  "  I'll  come 
back  and  tell  you.  There's  a  place  you  could  hide  by 
the  river  where  no  one  could  ever  find  you,"  she  said, 
and  left  the  room. 

As  she  stepped  out,  she  saw  the  old  man  standing  in 
the  doorway  of  the  other  room.  His  face  was  petrified 
with  amazement. 

"  Who  you  got  in  that  room.  Jinny  ?  What  man  you 
got  in  that  room?  I  heard  a  man's  voice.  Is  it  be- 
cause o'  him  that  you  bin  talkin'  about  no  weddin' 
to-morrow  ?  Is  it  one  o'  the  others  come  back,  puttin' 
you  off  Jake  again?" 

Her  eyes  flashed  fire  at  his  first  words,  and  her  breast 
heaved  with  anger,  but  suddenly  she  bcame  composed 
again  and  motioned  him  to  a  chair. 

"  You  eat,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  Uncle  Tom," 
she  said,  and,  seating  herself  at  the  table  also,  she  told 
him  the  story  of  the  man  who  must  go  to  Bindon. 

When  she  had  finished,  the  old  man  blinked  at  her 
for  a  minute  without  speaking,  then  he  said,  slowly:  "  I 
heard  something  'bout  trouble  down  at  Bindon  yister- 
day  from  a  Hudson's  Bay  man  goin'  North,  but  I  didn't 

8i 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

take  it  in.  You've  got  a  lot  o'  sense,  Jinny,  an'  if  you 
think  he's  tellin'  the  truth,  why,  it  goes;  but  it's  as  big 
a  mixup  as  a  lariat  in  a  steer's  horns.  You've  got  to 
hide  him  sure,  whoever  he  is,  for  I  wouldn't  hand  an 
Eskimo  over,  if  I'd  taken  him  in  my  home  once;  we're 
mountain  people.  A  man  ought  to  be  hung  for  horse- 
stealin',  but  this  was  different.  He  was  doing  it  to 
save  a  man's  life,  an'  that  man  at  Bindon  was  good  to 
his  little  gal,  an'  she's  dead." 

He  moved  his  head  from  side  to  side  with  the  air  of 
a  sentimental  philosopher.  He  had  all  the  vanity  of  a 
man  who  had  been  a  success  in  a  small,  shrewd,  culpable 
way — had  he  not  evaded  the  law  for  thirty  years  with 
his  whiskey-still  ? 

"I  know  how  he  felt,"  he  continued.  "When  Betsy 
died — we  was  only  four  years  married — I  could  have 
crawled  into  a  knot-hole  an'  died  there.  You  got  to 
save  him.  Jinny,  but" — he  came  suddenly  to  his  feet — 
"he  ain't  safe  here.  They  might  come  any  minute,  if 
they've  got  back  on  his  trail.  I'll  take  him  up  the 
gorge.     You  know  where." 

"You  sit  still.  Uncle  Tom,"  she  rejoined.  "Leave 
him  where  he  is  a  minute.  There's  things  must  be 
settled  first.  They  ain't  going  to  look  for  him  in  my 
bedroom,  be  they?" 

The  old  man  chuckled.  "  I'd  like  to  see  'em  at  it. 
You  got  a  temper,  Jinny;  and  you  got  a  pistol,  too, 
eh?"  He  chuckled  again.  "As  good  a  shot  as  any  in 
the  mountains.  I  can  see  you  darin'  'em  to  come  on. 
But  what  if  Jake  come,  and  he  found  a  man  in  your 
bedroom" — he  wiped  the  tears  of  laughter  from  his 
eyes — "why,  Jinny — " 

He  stopped  short,  for  there  was  anger  in  her  face. 
"  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  of  that.  I  do  what 
I  want  to  do,"  she  snapped  out. 

"  Well,  well,  you  always  done  what  you  wanted ;   but 

82 


TO-MORROW 

we  got  to  git  him  up  the  hills,  till  it's  sure  they're  out  o' 
the  mountains  and  gone  back.     It  '11  be  days,  mebbe." 

"Uncle  Tom,  you've  took  too  much  to  drink,"  she 
answered.  "You  don't  remember  he's  got  to  be  at 
Bindon  by  to-morrow  noon.  He's  got  to  save  his  friend 
by  then." 

"Pshaw!  Who's  going  to  take  him  down  the  river 
to-night?  You're  goin'  to  be  married  to-morrow.  If 
you  like,  you  can  give  him  the  canoe.  It  '11  never  come 
back,  nor  him  neither!" 

"You've  been  down  with  me,"  she  responded,  sug- 
gestively.    "And  you  went  down  once  by  yourself." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  ain't  been  so  well  this  sum- 
mer. My  sight  ain't  what  it  was.  I  can't  stand  the 
racket  as  I  once  could.  'Pears  to  me  I'm  gettin'  old. 
No,  I  couldn't  take  them  rapids.  Jinny,  not  for  one 
frozen  minute." 

She  looked  at  him  with  trouble  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
face  lost  some  of  its  color.  She  was  fighting  back  the 
inevitable,  even  as  its  shadow  fell  upon  her.  "  You 
woiildn't  want  a  man  to  die,  if  you  could  save  him, 
Uncle  Tom — blown  up,  sent  to  Kingdom  Come  with- 
out any  warning  at  all;  and  perhaps  he's  got  them 
that  love  him — and  the  world  so  beautiful." 

"Well,  it  ain't  nice  dyin'  in  the  summer,  when  it's 
all  sun,  and  there's  plenty  everywhere;  but  there's 
no  one  to  go  down  the  river  with  him.  What's  his 
name?" 

Her  struggle  was  over.  She  had  urged  him,  but  in 
very  truth  she  was  urging  herself  all  the  time,  bringing 
herself  to  the  axe  of  sacrifice. 

"  His  name's  Dingley.  I'm  going  down  the  river 
with  him — down  to  Bindon." 

The  old  man's  mouth  opened  in  blank  amazement. 
His  eyes  blinked  helplessly. 

"What  you  talkin'  about.  Jinny?    Jake's  comin'  up 

7  83 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

with  the  minister,  an'  you're  goin'  to  be  married  at  noon 
to-morrow." 

"I'm  takin'  him" — she  jerked  her  head  toward  the 
room  where  Dingley  was — "  down  Dog  Nose  Rapids 
to-night.  He's  risked  his  Hfe  for  his  friend,  thinkin'  of 
her  that's  dead  an'  gone,  and  a  man's  Hfe  is  a  man's  Hfe. 
If  it  was  Jake's  Hfe  in  danger,  what  'd  I  think  of  a 
woman  that  could  save  him,  and  didn't?" 

"  Onct  you  broke  off  with  Jake  Lawson — the  day  be- 
fore you  was  to  be  married;  an'  it's  took  years  to  make 
up  an'  agree  again  to  be  spHced.  If  Jake  comes  here 
to-morrow,  and  you  ain't  here,  what  do  you  think  he'll 
do?  The  neighbors  are  comin'  for  fifty  miles  round, 
two  is  comin'  up  a  hundred  miles,  and  you  can't — Jinny, 
you  can't  do  it.  I  bin  sick  of  answerin'  questions  all 
these  years  'bout  you  and  Jake,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  through 
it  again.  I've  told  more  lies  than  there's  straws  in  a 
tick." 

She  flamed  out.  "Then  take  him  down  the  river 
yourself — a  man  to  do  a  man's  work.  Are  you  afeard 
to  take  the  risk?" 

He  held  out  his  hands  slowly  and  looked  at  them. 
They  shook  a  little.  "  Yes,  Jinny,"  he  said,  sadly,  "  I'm 
afeard.  I  ain't  what  I  was.  I  made  a  mistake,  Jinny. 
I've  took  too  much  whiskey.  I'm  older  than  I  ought  to 
be.  I  oughtn't  never  to  have  had  a  whiskey-still,  an'  I 
wouldn't  have  drunk  so  much.  I  got  money — money 
for  you.  Jinny,  for  you  an'  Jake,  but  I've  lost  what  I'll 
never  git  back.  I'm  afeard  to  go  down  the  river  with 
him.  I'd  go  smash  in  the  Dog  Nose  Rapids.  I  got  no 
nerve.  I  can't  hunt  the  grizzly  any  more,  nor  the 
puma,  Jinny.  I  got  to  keep  to  common  shootin',  now 
and  henceforth,  amen!  No,  I'd  go  smash  in  Dog  Nose 
Rapids." 

She  caught  his  hands  impulsively.  "  Don't  you  fret, 
Uncle   Tom.     You've   bin   a   good   uncle   to   me,    and 

84 


TO-MORROW 

you've  bin  a  good  friend,  and  you  ain't  the  first  that's 
found  whiskey  too  much  for  him.  You  ain't  got  an 
enemy  in  the  mountains.     Why,  I've  got  two  or  three — " 

"Shucks!  Women — only  women  whose  beaux  left 
'em  to  follow  after  you.  That's  nothing,  an'  they'll 
be  your  friends  fast  enough  after  you're  married  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  ain't  going  to  be  married  to-morrow.  I'm  going 
down  to  Bindon  to-night.  If  Jake's  mad,  then  it's  all 
over,  and  there'll  be  more  trouble  among  the  women  up 
here." 

By  this  time  they  had  entered  the  other  room.  The 
old  man  saw  the  white  petticoat  on  the  chair.  "  No 
woman  in  the  mountains  ever  had  a  petticoat  like  that, 
Jinny.  It  'd  make  a  dress,  it's  that  pretty  an'  neat. 
Golly!  I'd  like  to  see  it  on  you,  with  the  blue  skirt  over, 
and  just  hitched  up  a  little." 

"Oh,  shut  up — shut  up!"  she  said,  in  sudden  anger, 
and  caught  up  the  petticoat  as  though  she  would  put 
it  away;  but  presently  she  laid  it  down  again  and 
smoothed  it  with  quick,  nervous  fingers.  "  Can't  you 
talk  sense  and  leave  my  clothes  alone  ?  If  Jake  comes, 
and  I'm  not  here,  and  he  wants  to  make  a  fuss,  and 
spoil  everything,  and  won't  wait,  you  give  him  this 
petticoat.  You  put  it  in  his  arms.  I  bet  you'll  have 
the  laugh  on  him.     He's  got  a  temper." 

"  So've  you.  Jinny,  dear,  so've  you,"  said  the  old 
man,  laughing.  "  You're  goin'  to  have  your  own  way, 
same  as  ever — same  as  ever." 


II 

A  moon  of  exquisite  whiteness  silvering  the  world, 
making  shadows  on  the  water  as  though  it  were  sun- 
light and  the  daytime,  giving  a  spectral  look  to  the 

85 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

endless  array  of  poplar  trees  on  the  banks,  glittering  on 
the  foam  of  the  rapids.  The  spangling  stars  made  the 
arch  of  the  sky  like  some  gorgeous  chancel  in  a  cathe- 
dral as  vast  as  life  and  time.  Like  the  day  which  was 
ended,  in  which  the  mountain-girl  had  found  a  taste  of 
Eden,  it  seemed  too  sacred  for  mortal  strife.  Now  and 
again  there  came  the  note  of  a  night-bird,  the  croak  of 
a  frog  from  the  shore;  but  the  serene  stillness  and 
beauty  of  the  primeval  North  was  over  all. 

For  two  hours  after  sunset  it  had  all  been  silent  and 
brooding,  and  then  two  figures  appeared  on  the  bank 
of  the  great  river.  A  canoe  was  softly  and  hastily 
pushed  out  from  its  hidden  shelter  under  the  over- 
hanging bank,  and  was  noiselessly  paddled  out  to  mid- 
stream, dropping  down  the  current  meanwhile. 

It  was  Jenny  Long  and  the  man  who  must  get  to 
Bindon.  They  had  waited  till  nine  o'clock,  when  the 
moon  was  high  and  full,  to  venture  forth.  Then  Ding- 
ley  had  dropped  from  her  bedroom  window,  had  joined 
her  under  the  trees,  and  they  had  sped  away,  while  the 
man's  hunters,  who  had  come  suddenly,  and  before 
Jenny  could  get  him  away  into  the  woods,  were  carous- 
ing inside.  These  had  tracked  their  man  back  to  Tom 
Sanger's  house,  and  at  first  they  were  incredulous  that 
Jenny  and  her  uncle  had  not  seen  him.  They  had  pre- 
pared to  search  the  house,  and  one  had  laid  his  finger 
on  the  latch  of  her  bedroom  door;  but  she  had  flared 
out  with  such  anger  that,  mindful  of  the  supper  she  had 
already  begun  to  prepare  for  them,  they  had  desisted, 
and  the  whiskey-jug  which  the  old  man  brought  out  dis- 
tracted their  attention. 

One  of  their  number,  known  as  the  Man  from  Clancey's 
had,  however,  been  outside  when  Dingley  had  dropped 
from  the  window,  and  had  seen  him  from  a  distance. 
He  had  not  given  the  alarm,  but  had  followed,  to  make 
the  capture  by  himself.     But  Jenny  had  heard  the  stir 

86 


TO-MORROW 

of  life  behind  them,  and  had  made  a  sharp  detour,  so 
that  they  had  reached  the  shore  and  were  out  in  mid- 
stream before  their  tracker  got  to  the  river.  Then  he 
called  to  them  to  return,  but  Jenny  only  bent  a  little 
lower  and  paddled  on,  guiding  the  canoe  toward  the  safe 
channel  through  the  first  small  rapids  leading  to  the 
great  Dog  Nose  Rapids. 

A  rifle-shot  rang  out,  and  a  bullet  "pinged"  over  the 
water  and  splintered  the  side  of  the  canoe  where  Dingley 
sat.  He  looked  calmly  back,  and  saw  the  rifle  raised 
again,  but  did  not  stir,  in  spite  of  Jenny's  warning  to 
lie  down. 

"  He'll  not  fire  on  you  so  long  as  he  can  draw  a  bead 
on  me,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Again  a  shot  rang  out,  and  the  btdlet  sang  past  his 
head. 

"  If  he  hits  me,  you  go  straight  on  to  Bindon,"  he 
continued.  "  Never  mind  about  me.  Go  to  the  Snow- 
drop Mine.  Get  there  by  twelve  o'clock,  and  warn 
them.     Don't  stop  a  second  for  me — " 

Suddenly  three  shots  rang  out  in  succession — Tom 
Sanger's  house  had  emptied  itself  on  the  bank  of  the 
river — and  Dingley  gave  a  sharp  exclamation. 

"They've  hit  me,  but  it's  the  same  arm  as  before,' 
he  growled.     "  They  got  no  right  to  fire  at  me.     It's  not 
the  law.     Don't  stop,"  he  added,  qmckly,  as  he  saw  her 
half  turn  round. 

Now  there  were  loud  voices  on  the  shore.  Old  Tom 
Sanger  was  threatening  to  shoot  the  first  man  that 
fired  again,  and  he  would  have  kept  his  word. 

"Who  you  firin'  at?"  he  shouted.  "That's  my 
niece,  Jinny  Long,  an'  you  let  that  boat  alone.  This 
ain't  the  land  o'  lynch  law.  Dingley  ain't  escaped  from 
gaol.     You  got  no  right  to  fire  at  him." 

"  No  one  ever  went  down  Dog  Nose  Rapids  at  night," 
said  the  Man  from  Clancey's,  whose  shot  had  got  Ding- 

87 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

ley's  arm.  "  There  ain't  a  chance  of  them  doing  it.  No 
one's  ever  done  it." 

The  two  were  in  the  roaring  rapids  now,  and  the 
canoe  was  jumping  through  the  foam  like  a  race-horse. 
The  keen  eyes  on  the  bank  watched  the  canoe  till  it 
was  lost  in  the  half-gloom  below  the  first  rapids,  and 
then  they  went  slowly  back  to  Tom  Sanger's  house. 

"So  there'll  be  no  wedding  to-morrow,"  said  the  Man 
from  Clancey's. 

"  Funerals,  more  likely,"  drawled  another. 

"Jinny  Long's  in  that  canoe,  an'  she  ginerally  does 
what  she  wants  to,"  said  Tom  Sanger,  sagely. 

"  Well,  we  done  our  best,  and  now  I  hope  they'll  get 
to  Bindon,"  said  another. 

Sanger  passed  the  jug  to  him  freely.  Then  they  sat 
down  and  talked  of  the  people  who  had  been  drowned 
in  Dog  Nose  Rapids,  and  of  the  last  wedding  in  the 
mountains. 

Ill 

It  was  as  the  Man  from  Clancey's  had  said,  no  one  had 
ever  gone  down  Dog  Nose  Rapids  in  the  night-time, 
and  probably  no  one  but  Jenny  Long  would  have  ven- 
tured it.  Dingley  had  had  no  idea  what  a  perilous  task 
had  been  set  his  rescuer.  It  was  only  when  the  angry 
roar  of  the  great  rapids  floated  up-stream  to  them,  in- 
creasing in  volume  till  they  could  see  the  terror  of 
tumbling  waters  just  below,  and  the  canoe  shot  forward 
like  a  snake  through  the  swift,  smooth  current  which 
would  sweep  them  into  the  vast  caldron,  that  he  realized 
the  terrible  hazard  of  the  enterprise. 

The  moon  was  directly  overhead  when  they  drew 
upon  the  race  of  rocks  and  fighting  water  and  foam. 
On  either  side  only  the  shadowed  shore,  forsaken  by 
the  races  which  had  hunted  and  roamed  and  ravaged 

88 


TO-MORROW 

here — not  a  light,  nor  any  sign  of  life,  or  the  friendliness 
of  human  presence  to  make  their  isolation  less  com- 
plete, their  danger,  as  it  were,  shared  by  fellow-mortals. 
Bright  as  the  moon  was,  it  was  not  bright  enough  for 
perfect  pilotage.  Never  in  the  history  of  white  men 
had  these  rapids  been  ridden  at  night-time.  As  they 
sped  down  the  flume  of  the  deep,  irresistible  current, 
and  were  launched  into  the  trouble  of  rocks  and  water, 
Jenny  realized  how  great  their  peril  was,  and  how  dif- 
ferent the  track  of  the  waters  looked  at  night-time  from 
daytime.  Outlines  seemed  merged,  rocks  did  not  look 
the  same,  whirlpools  had  a  different  vortex,  islands  of 
stone  had  a  new  configuration.  As  they  sped  on,  lurch- 
ing, jumping,  piercing  a  broken  wall  of  wave  and  spray 
like  a  torpedo,  shooting  an  almost  sheer  fall,  she  came 
to  rely  on  a  sense  of  intuition  rather  than  memory,  for 
night  had  transformed  the  waters. 

Not  a  sound  escaped  either.  The  man  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  woman;  the  woman  scanned  the  dreadful 
pathway  with  eyes  deep-set  and  burning,  resolute, 
vigilant,  and  yet  defiant,  too,  as  though  she  had  been 
trapped  into  this  track  of  danger,  and  was  fighting  with- 
out great  hope,  but  with  the  temerity  and  nonchalance 
of  despair.  Her  arms  were  bare  to  the  shoulder  almost, 
and  her  face  was  again  and  again  drenched,  but  second 
succeeded  second,  minute  followed  minute  in  a  struggle 
which  might  well  turn  a  man's  hair  gray,  and  now,  at 
last — how  many  hours  was  it  since  they  had  been  cast 
into  this  den  of  roaring  waters  ? — at  last,  suddenly,  over 
a  large  fall,  and  here  smooth  waters  again,  smooth  and 
untroubled,  and  strong  and  deep.  Then,  and  only  then, 
did  a  word  escape  either;  but  the  man  had  passed 
through  torture  and  unavailing  regret,  for  he  realized 
that  he  had  had  no  right  to  bring  this  girl  into  such  a 
fight.  It  was  not  her  friend  who  was  in  danger  at  Bin- 
don.     Her  life  had  been  risked  without  due  warrant. 

89 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"  I  didn't  know,  or  I  wouldn't  have  asked  it,"  he  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  Lord,  but  you  are  a  wonder — tc  take 
that  hurdle  for  no  one  that  belonged  to  you,  and  to  do 
it  as  you've  done  it.  This  country  will  rise  to  you." 
He  looked  back  on  the  raging  rapids  far  behind,  and 
he  shuddered.  "  It  was  a  close  call,  and  no  mistake. 
We  must  have  been  within  a  foot  of  down-you-go  fifty 
times.  But  it's  all  right  now,  if  we  can  last  it  out  and 
git  there."  Again  he  glanced  back,  then  turned  to  the 
girl.  "It  makes  me  pretty  sick  to  look  at  it,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  I  bin  through  a  lot,  but  that's  as  sharp  prac- 
tice as  I  want." 

"Come  here  and  let  me  bind  up  your  arm,"  she  an- 
swered. "They  hit  you — the  sneaks!  Are  you  bleed- 
ing much?" 

He  came  near  her  carefully,  as  she  got  the  big  canoe 
out  of  the  current  into  quieter  water.  She  whipped  the 
scarf  from  about  her  neck,  and  with  his  knife  ripped  up 
the  seam  of  his  sleeve.  Her  face  was  alive  with  the 
joy  of  conflict  and  elated  with  triumph.  Her  eyes  were 
shining.  She  bathed  the  wound — the  bullet  had  passed 
clean  through  the  fleshy  part  of  the  arm — and  then  care- 
fully tied  the  scarf  round  it  over  her  handkerchief. 

"  I  guess  it's  as  good  as  a  man  could  do  it,"  she  said, 
at  last. 

"As  good  as  any  doctor,"  he  rejoined. 

"I  wasn't  talking  of  your  arm,"  she  said. 

"  Course  not.  Excuse  me.  You  was  talkin'  of  them 
rapids,  and  I've  got  to  say  there  ain't  a  man  that  could 
have  done  it  and  come  through  like  you.  I  guess  the 
man  that  marries  you'll  get  more  than  his  share  of 
luck." 

"I  want  none  of  that,"  she  said,  sharply,  and  picked 
up  her  paddle  again,  her  eyes  flashing  anger. 

He  took  a  pistol  from  his  pocket  and  offered  it  to 
her.     "  I  didn't  mean  any  harm  by  what  I  said.     Take 

go 


TO-MORROW 

this  if  you  think  I  won't  know  how  to  behave  my'self," 
he  urged. 

She  flung  up  her  head  a  httle.  "  I  knew  what  I  was 
doing  before  I  started,"  she  said.  "  Put  it  away.  How 
far  is  it,  and  can  we  do  it  in  time  ?" 

"If  you  can  hold  out,  we  can  do  it;  but  it  means 
going  all  night  and  all  morning;  and  it  ain't  dawn  yet, 
by  a  long  shot." 

Dawn  came  at  last,  and  the  mist  of  early  morning, 
and  the  imperious  and  dispelling  sun;  and  with  mouth- 
fuls  of  food  as  they  drifted  on,  the  two  fixed  their  eyes 
on  the  horizon  beyond  which  lay  Bindon.  And  now 
it  seemed  to  the  girl  as  though  this  race  to  save  a  life, 
or  many  lives,  was  the  one  thing  in  existence.  To- 
morrow was  to-day,  and  the  white  petticoat  was  lying 
in  the  little  house  in  the  mountains,  and  her  wedding 
was  an  interminable  distance  off,  so  had  this  adventure 
drawn  her  into  its  risks  and  toils  and  haggard  exhaus- 
tion. 

Eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven  o'clock  came,  and  then  they 
saw  signs  of  settlement.  Houses  appeared  here  and 
there  upon  the  banks,  and  now  and  then  a  horseman 
watched  them  from  the  shore,  but  they  could  not  pause. 
Bindon — Bindon — Bindon — -the  Snowdrop  Mine  at  Bin- 
don, and  a  death-dealing  machine  timed  to  do  its  deadly 
work,  were  before  the  eyes  of  the  two  voyageurs. 

Half-past  eleven,  and  the  town  of  Bindon  was  just 
beyond  them.  A  quarter  to  twelve,  and  they  had  run 
their  canoe  into  the  bank  beyond  which  were  the  smoke- 
stacks and  chimneys  of  the  mine.  Bindon  was  peace- 
fully pursuing  its  way,  though  here  and  there  were  little 
groups  of  strikers  who  had  not  resumed  work. 

Dingley  and  the  girl  scrambled  up  the  bank.  Trem- 
bling with  fatigue,  they  hastened  on.  The  man  drew 
ahead  of  her,   for  she  had  paddled  for  fifteen  hours, 

91 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

pracfically  without  ceasing,  and  the  ground  seemed  to 
rise  up  at  her.     But  she  would  not  let  him  stop. 

He  hurried  on,  reached  the  mine,  and  entered,  shout- 
ing the  name  of  his  friend.  It  was  seven  minutes  to 
twelve. 

A  moment  later,  a  half-dozen  men  came  rushing  from 
that  portion  of  the  mine  where  Dingley  had  been  told 
the  machine  was  placed,  and  at  their  head  was  Lawson, 
the  man  he  had  come  to  save. 

The  girl  hastened  on  to  meet  them,  but  she  grew  faint 
and  leaned  against  a  tree,  scarce  conscious.  She  was 
roused  by  voices. 

"No,  it  wasn't  me,  it  wasn't  me  that  done  it;  it  was 
a  girl.  Here  she  is — Jenny  Long!  You  got  to  thank 
her,  Jake." 

Jake!  Jake!  The  girl  awakened  to  full  understand- 
ing now.  Jake — what  Jake  ?  She  looked,  then  stumbled 
forward  with  a  cry. 

"Jake — it  was  my  Jake!"  she  faltered. 

The  mine-boss  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"You,  Jenny!     It's  you  that's  saved  me!" 

Suddenly  there  was  a  rumble  as  of  thunder,  and  a 
cloud  of  dust  and  stone  rose  from  the  Snowdrop  Mine. 

The  mine-boss  tightened  his  arm  round  the  girl's 
waist.  "That's  what  I  missed,  through  him  and  you, 
Jenny,"  he  said. 

"What  was  you  doing  here,  and  not  at  Selby,  Jake?" 
she  asked. 

"They  sent  for  me — to  stop  the  trouble  here." 

"But  what  about  our  wedding  to-day?"  she  asked, 
with  a  frown. 

"A  man  went  from  here  with  a  letter  to  you  three 
days  ago,"  he  said,  "asking  you  to  come  down  here 
and  be  married.  I  suppose  he  got  drunk,  or  had  an 
accident,  and  didn't  reach  you.  It  had  to  be.  I  was 
needed  here — couldn't  tell  what  would  happen." 

92 


TO-MORROW 

"It  has  happened  out  all  right,"  said  Dingley,  "and 
this  '11  be  the  end  of  it.  You  got  them  miners  solid 
now.     The  strikers  '11  eat  humble  pie  after  to-day." 

"We'll  be  married  to-day,  just  the  same,"  the  mine- 
boss  said,  as  he  gave  some  brandy  to  the  girl. 

But  the  girl  shook  her  head.  She  was  thinking  of 
a  white  petticoat  in  a  little  house  in  the  mountains. 

"I'm  not  going  to  be  married  to-day,"  she  said, 
decisively. 

"Well,  to-morrow,"  said  the  mine-boss. 

But  the  girl  shook  her  head  again.  "To-day  is  to- 
morrow," she  answered.  "  You  can  wait,  Jake.  I'm 
going  back  home  to  be  married." 


QU'APPELLE 

(Who  calls?) 

"But  I'm  white;  I'm  not  an  Indian.  My  father  was 
a  white  man.  I've  been  brought  up  as  a  white  girl. 
I've  had  a  white  girl's  schooling." 

Her  eyes  flashed  as  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  for  a  moment,  then  stood  still, 
facing  her  mother — a  dark-faced,  pock-marked  woman, 
with  heavy,  somnolent  eyes — and  waited  for  her  to 
speak.     The  reply  came  slowly  and  sullenly: 

"  I  am  a  Blackfoot  woman.  I  lived  on  the  Muskwat 
River  among  the  braves  for  thirty  years.  I  have  killed 
buffalo.  I  have  seen  battles.  Men,  too,  I  have  killed 
when  they  came  to  steal  our  horses  and  crept  in  on 
our  lodges  in  the  night — the  Crees!  I  am  a  Blackfoot. 
You  are  the  daughter  of  a  Blackfoot  woman.  No 
medicine  can  cure  that.  Sit  down.  You  have  no  sense. 
You  are  not  white.  They  will  not  have  you.  Sit 
down." 

The  girl's  handsome  face  flushed;  she  threw  up  her 
hands  in  an  agony  of  protest.  A  dreadful  anger  was 
in  her  panting  breast,  but  she  could  not  speak.  She 
seemed  to  choke  with  excess  of  feeling.  For  an  instant 
she  stood  still,  trembling  with  agitation,  then  she  sat 
down  suddenly  on  a  great  couch  covered  with  soft  deer- 
skins and  buffalo  robes.  There  was  deep  in  her  the 
habit  of  obedience  to  this  sombre  but  striking  woman. 

94 


QU'APPELLE 

She  had  been  ruled  firmly,  almost  oppressively,  and 
she  had  not  yet  revolted.  Seated  on  the  couch,  she 
gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  flying  snow,  her  brain 
too  much  on  fire  for  thought,  passion  beating  like  a 
pulse  in  all  her  lithe  and  graceful  young  body,  which 
had  known  the  storms  of  life  and  time  for  only  twenty 
years. 

The  wind  shrieked  and  the  snow  swept  past  in  clouds 
of  blinding  drift,  completely  hiding  from  sight  the  town 
below  them,  whose  civilization  had  built  itself  many 
habitations  and  was  making  roads  and  streets  on  the 
green-brown  plain,  where  herds  of  buffalo  had  stamped 
and  streamed  and  thundered  not  long  ago.  The  town 
was  a  mile  and  a  half  away,  and  these  two  were  alone 
in  a  great  circle  of  storm,  one  of  them  battling  against 
a  tempest  which  might  yet  overtake  her,  against  which 
she  had  set  her  face  ever  since  she  could  remember; 
though  it  had  only  come  to  violence  since  her  father 
died  two  years  before — a  careless,  strong,  wilful,  white 
man,  who  had  lived  the  Indian  life  for  many  years,  but 
had  been  swallowed  at  last  by  the  great  wave  of  civiliza- 
tion streaming  westward  and  northward,  wiping  out 
the  game  and  the  Indian,  and  overwhelming  the  rough, 
fighting,  hunting,  pioneer  life.  Joel  Renton  had  made 
money,  by  good  luck  chiefly,  having  held  land  here  and 
there  which  he  had  got  for  nothing,  and  had  then  almost 
forgotten  about  it,  and,  when  reminded  of  it,  still  held 
on  to  it  with  that  defiant  stubbornness  which  often 
possesses  improvident  and  careless  natures.  He  had 
never  had  any  real  business  instinct,  and  to  swagger  a 
little  over  the  land  he  held  and  to  treat  offers  of  pur- 
chase with  contempt  was  the  loud  assertion  of  a  capac- 
ity he  did  not  possess.  So  it  was  that  stubborn  vanity, 
beneath  which  was  his  angry  protest  against  the  prej- 
udice felt  by  the  new  people  of  the  West  for  the  white 
pioneer  who  married  an  Indian   and   lived  the  Indian 

95 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

life — so  it  was  that  this  gave  him  competence  and  a 
comfortable  home  after  the  old  trader  had  been  driven 
out  by  the  railway  and  the  shopkeeper.  With  the  first 
land  he  sold  he  sent  his  daughter  away  to  school  in  a 
town  farther  east  and  south,  where  she  had  been  brought 
in  touch  with  a  life  that  at  once  cramped  and  attracted 
her;  where,  too,  she  had  felt  the  first  chill  of  racial 
ostracism,  and  had  proudly  fought  it  to  the  end,  her 
weapons  being  talent,  industry ,  and  a  hot ,  defiant  ambition. 
There  had  been  three  years  of  bitter,  almost  half- 
sullen,  struggle,  lightened  by  one  sweet  friendship  with 
a  girl  whose  face  she  had  since  drawn  in  a  hundred  dif- 
ferent poses  on  stray  pieces  of  paper,  on  the  walls  of 
the  big,  well-lighted  attic  to  which  she  retreated  for 
hours  every  day,  when  she  was  not  abroad  on  the  prairies, 
riding  the  Indian  pony  that  her  uncle  the  Piegan  Chief, 
Ice  Breaker,  had  given  her  years  before.  Three  years 
of  struggle,  and  then  her  father  had  died,  and  the  ref- 
uge for  her  vexed,  defiant  heart  was  gone.  While  he 
lived  she  could  affirm  the  rights  of  a  white  man's  daugh- 
ter, the  rights  of  the  daughter  of  a  pioneer  who  had 
helped  to  make  the  West;  and  her  pride  in  him  had 
given  a  glow  to  her  cheek  and  a  spring  to  her  step  which 
drew  every  eye.  In  the  chief  street  of  Portage  la 
Drome  men  would  stop  their  trafficking  and  women 
nudge  one  another  when  she  passed,  and  wherever  she 
went  she  stirred  interest,  excited  admiration,  or  aroused 
prejudice — but  the  prejudice  did  not  matter  so  long  as 
her  father,  Joel  Renton,  lived.  Whatever  his  faults, 
and  they  were  many — sometimes  he  drank  too  much, 
and  swore  a  great  deal,  and  bullied  and  stormed — she 
blinked  at  them  all,  for  he  was  of  the  conquering 
race,  a  white  man  who  had  slept  in  white  sheets  and 
eaten  off  white  tablecloths,  and  used  a  knife  and  fork, 
since  he  was  born;  and  the  women  of  his  people  had  had 
soft  petticoats  and  fine   stockings,  and  silk  gowns  for 

96 


QU'APPELLE 

festal  days,  and  feathered  hats  of  velvet,  and  shoes  of 
polished  leather,  always  and  always,  back  through  many 
generations.  She  had  held  her  head  high,  for  she  was 
of  his  women,  of  the  women  of  his  people,  with  all  their 
rights  and  all  their  claims.  She  had  held  it  high  till 
that  stormy  day — just  such  a  day  as  this,  with  the  surf 
of  snow  breaking  against  the  house — when  they  carried 
him  in  out  of  the  wild  turmoil  and  snow,  laying  him  on 
the  couch  where  she  now  sat,  and  her  head  fell  on  his 
lifeless  breast,  and  she  cried  out  to  him  in  vain  to  come 
back  to  her. 

Before  the  world  her  head  was  still  held  high,  but  in 
the  attic-room,  and  out  on  the  prairies  far  away,  where 
only  the  coyote  or  the  prairie  hen  saw,  her  head  drooped, 
and  her  eyes  grew  heavy  with  pain  and  sombre  protest. 
Once  in  an  agony  of  loneliness,  and  cruelly  hurt  by  a 
conspicuous  slight  put  upon  her  at  the  Portage  by  the 
wife  of  the  Reeve  of  the  town,  who  had  daughters  twain 
of  pure  white  blood  got  from  behind  the  bar  of  a  saloon 
in  Winnipeg,  she  had  thrown  open  her  window  at  night, 
with  the  frost  below  zero,  and  stood  in  her  thin  night- 
dress, craving  the  death  which  she  hoped  the  cold  would 
give  her  soon.  It  had  not  availed,  however,  and  once 
again  she  had  ridden  out  in  a  blizzard  to  die,  but  had 
come  upon  a  man  lost  in  the  snow,  and  her  own  misery 
had  passed  from  her,  and  her  heart,  full  of  the  blood  of 
plainsmen,  had  done  for  another  what  it  would  not  do 
for  itself.  The  Indian  in  her  had,  with  strange,  sure 
instinct,  found  its  way  to  Portage  la  Drome,  the  man, 
with  both  hands  and  one  foot  frozen,  on  her  pony,  she 
walking  at  his  side,  only  conscious  that  she  had  saved 
one,  not  two  lives  that  day. 

Here  was  another  such  day,  here  again  was  the  storm 
in  her  heart  which  had  driven  her  into  the  plains  that 
other  time,  and  here  again  was  that  tempest  of  white 
death  outside. 

97 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"  You  have  no  sense.  You  are  not  white.  They  will 
not  have  you.  Sit  down — "  The  words  had  fallen  on 
her  ears  with  a  cold,  deadly  smother.  There  came  a 
chill  upon  her  which  stilled  the  wild  pulses  in  her, 
which  suddenly  robbed  the  eyes  of  their  brightness  and 
gave  a  drawn  look  to  the  face. 

"  You  are  not  white.  They  will  not  have  you,  Paul- 
ine." The  Indian  mother  repeated  the  words  after  a 
moment,  her  eyes  grown  still  more  gloomy;  for  in  her, 
too,  there  was  a  dark  tide  of  passion  moving.  In  all 
the  outlived  years  this  girl  had  ever  turned  to  the  white 
father  rather  than  to  her,  and  she  had  been  left  more 
and  more  alone.  Her  man  had  been  kind  to  her,  and 
she  had  been  a  faithful  wife,  but  she  had  resented  the 
natural  instinct  of  her  half-breed  child,  almost  white 
herself  and  with  the  feelings  and  ways  of  the  whites,  to 
turn  always  to  her  father,  as  though  to  a  superior  guide, 
to  a  higher  influence  and  authority.  Was  not  she  her- 
self the  descendant  of  Blackfoot  and  Piegan  chiefs 
through  generations  of  rulers  and  warriors?  Was  there 
not  Piegan  and  Blackfoot  blood  in  the  girl's  veins? 
Must  only  the  white  man's  blood  be  reckoned  when 
they  made  up  their  daily  account  and  balanced  the 
books  of  their  lives,  credit  and  debtor — misunderstand- 
ing and  kind  act,  neglect  and  tenderness,  reproof  and 
praise,  gentleness  and  impulse,  anger  and  caress — to  be 
set  down  in  the  everlasting  record?  Why  must  the 
Indian  always  give  way — Indian  habits,  Indian  desires, 
the  Indian  way  of  doing  things,  the  Indian  point  of 
view,  Indian  food,  Indian  medicine?  Was  it  all  bad, 
and  only  that  which  belonged  to  white  life  good? 

"Look  at  your  face  in  the  glass,  Pauline,"  she  added, 
at  last.  "  You  are  good-looking,  but  it  isn't  the  good 
looks  of  the  whites.  The  lodge  of  a  chieftainess  is  the 
place  for  you.  There  you  would  have  praise  and  honor; 
among  the  whites  you  are  only  a  half-breed.     What  is 

98 


QU'APPELLE 

the  good  ?  Let  us  go  back  to  the  life  out  there  beyond 
the  Muskwat  River — up  beyond.  There  is  hunting  still, 
a  little,  and  the  world  is  quiet,  and  nothing  troubles. 
Only  the  wild  dog  barks  at  night,  or  the  wolf  sniffs  at 
the  door,  and  all  day  there  is  singing.  Somewhere  out 
beyond  the  Muskwat  the  feasts  go  on,  and  the  old  men 
build  the  great  fires,  and  tell  tales,  and  call  the  wind 
out  of  the  north,  and  make  the  thunder  speak;  and  the 
young  men  ride  to  the  hunt  or  go  out  to  battle,  and 
build  lodges  for  the  daughters  of  the  tribe;  and  each 
man  has  his  woman,  and  each  woman  has  in  her  breast 
the  honor  of  the  tribe,  and  the  little  ones  fill  the  lodge 
with  laughter.  Like  a  pocket  of  deerskin  is  every  house, 
warm  and  small  and  full  of  good  things.  Hai-yai,  what 
is  this  life  to  that !  There  you  will  be  head  and  chief  of 
all,  for  there  is  money  enough  for  a  thousand  horses; 
and  your  father  was  a  white  man,  and  these  are  the 
days  when  the  white  man  rules.  Like  clouds  before  the 
sun  are  the  races  of  men,  and  one  race  rises  and  another 
falls.  Here  you  are  not  first,  but  last;  and  the  child 
of  the  white  father  and  mother,  though  they  be  as  the 
dirt  that  flies  from  a  horse's  heels,  it  is  before  you. 
Your  mother  is  a  Blackfoot." 

As  the  woman  spoke  slowly  and  with  many  pauses, 
the  girl's  mood  changed,  and  there  came  into  her  eyes 
a  strange,  dark  look  deeper  than  anger.  She  listened 
with  a  sudden  patience  which  stilled  the  agitation  in 
her  breast  and  gave  a  little  touch  of  rigidity  to  her 
figure.  Her  eyes  withdrew  from  the  wild  storm  without 
and  gravely  settled  on  her  mother's  face,  and  with  the 
Indian  woman's  last  words  understanding  pierced,  but 
did  not  dispel,  the  sombre  and  ominous  look  in  her 
eyes. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  theii  she  spoke 
almost  as  evenly  as  her  mother  had  done. 

"  I  will  tell  you  everything.     You  are  my  mother,  and 

8  99 


NOJ^THERN    LIGHTS 

I  love  you;  but  you  will  not  see  the  truth.  When  my 
father  took  you  from  the  lodges  and  brought  you  here, 
it  was  the  end  of  the  Indian  life.  It  was  for  you  to  go  on 
with  him,  but  you  would  not  go.  I  was  young,  but  I 
saw,  and  I  said  that  in  all  things  I  would  go  with  him. 
I  did  not  know  that  it  would  be  hard,  but  at  school, 
at  the  very  first,  I  began  to  understand.  There  was 
only  one,  a  French  girl — I  loved  her — a  girl  who  said 
to  me,  '  You  are  as  white  as  I  am,  as  any  one,  and  your 
heart  is  the  same,  and  you  are  beautiful.'  Yes,  Manette 
said  I  was  beautiful." 

She  paused  a  moment,  a  misty,  far-away  look  came 
into  her  eyes,  her  fingers  clasped  and  unclasped,  and 
she  added: 

"  And  her  brother,  Julien — he  was  older — when  he 
came  to  visit  Manette  he  spoke  to  me  as  though  I  was 
all  white,  and  was  good  to  me.  I  have  never  forgotten, 
never.  It  was  five  years  ago,  but  I  remember  him. 
He  was  tall  and  strong,  and  as  good  as  Manette — as 
good  as  Manette.  I  loved  Manette,  but  she  suffered 
for  me,  for  I  was  not  like  the  others,  and  my  ways 
were  different — then.  I  had  lived  up  there  on  the 
Warais  among  the  lodges,  and  I  had  not  seen  things — 
only  from  my  father,  and  he  did  so  much  in  an  Indian 
way.  So  I  was  sick  at  heart,  and  sometimes  I  wanted 
to  die;  and  once —  But  there  was  Manette,  and  she 
would  laugh  and  sing,  and  we  would  play  together,  and 
I  would  speak  French  and  she  would  speak  English,  and 
I  learned  from  her  to  forget  the  Indian  ways.  What 
were  they  to  me  ?  I  had  loved  them  when  I  was  of 
them,  but  I  came  on  to  a  better  life.  The  Indian  life 
is  to  the  white  life  as  the  parfleche  pouch  to — to  this." 
She  laid  her  hand  upon  a  purse  of  delicate  silver  mesh 
hanging  at  her  waist.  "  When  your  eyes  are  opened 
you  must  go  on,  you  cannot  stop.  There  is  no  going 
back.     When  you  have  read  of  all  there  is  in  the  white 

lOO 


QU'APPELLE 

man's  world,  when  you  have  seen,  then  there  is  no 
returning.  You  may  end  it  all,  if  you  wish,  in  the 
snow,  in  the  river,  but  there  is  no  returning.  The 
lodge  of  a  chief — ah,  if  my  father  had  heard  you  say 
that—!" 

The  Indian  woman  shifted  heavily  in  her  chair,  then 
shrank  away  from  the  look  fixed  on  her.  Once  or  twice 
she  made  as  if  she  would  speak,  but  sank  down  in  the 
great  chair,  helpless  and  dismayed. 

"The  lodge  of  a  chief!"  the  girl  continued,  in  a  low, 
bitter  voice.  "What'is  the  lodge  of  a  chief?  A  smoky 
fire,  a  pot,  a  bed  of  skins — aih-yi!  If  the  lodges  of  the 
Indians  were  millions,  and  I  could  be  head  of  all,  and 
rule  the  land,  yet  would  I  rather  be  a  white  girl  in  the 
hut  of  her  white  man,  struggling  for  daily  bread  among 
the  people  who  sweep  the  buffalo  out,  but  open  up  the 
land  with  the  plough,  and  make  a  thousand  live  where 
one  lived  before.  It  is  peace  you  want,  my  mother, 
peace  and  solitude,  in  which  the  soul  goes  to  sleep. 
Your  days  of  hope  are  over,  and  yofi  want  to  drowse  by 
the  fire.  I  want  to  see  the  white  man's  cities  grow,  and 
the  armies  coming  over  the  hill  with  the  ploughs  and 
the  reapers  and  the  mowers,  and  the  wheels  and  the 
belts  and  engines  of  the  great  factories,  and  the  white 
woman's  life  spreading  everywhere;  for  I  am  a  white 
man's  daughter.  I  can't  be  both  Indian  and  white.  I 
will  not  be  like  the  sun  when  the  shadow  cuts  across  it 
and  the  land  grows  dark.  I  will  not  be  half-breed.  I 
will  be  white  or  I  will  be  Indian;  and  I  will  be  white, 
white  only.  My  heart  is  white,  my  tongue  is  white,  I 
think,  I  feel,  as  white  people  think  and  feel.  What  they 
wish,  I  wish;  as  they  live,  I  live;  as  white  women  dress, 
I  dress." 

She  involuntarily  drew  up  the  dark-red  skirt  she  wore, 
showing  a  white  petticoat  and  a  pair  of  fine  stockings 
on  an  ankle  as  shapely  as  she  had  ever  seen  among  all 

loi 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

the  white  women  she  knew.  She  drew  herself  up  with 
pride,  and  her  body  had  a  grace  and  ease  which  the 
white  woman's  convention  had  not  cramped. 

Yet,  with  all  her  protests,  no  one  would  have  thought 
her  English.  She  might  have  been  Spanish,  or  Italian, 
or  Roumanian,  or  Slav,  though  nothing  of  her  Indian 
blood  showed  in  purely  Indian  characteristics,  and  some- 
thing sparkled  in  her,  gave  a  radiance  to  her  face  and 
figure  which  the  storm  and  struggle  in  her  did  not 
smother.  The  white  women  of  Portage  la  Drome  were 
too  blind,  too  prejudiced,  to  see  all  that  she  really  was, 
and  admiring  white  men  could  do  little,  for  Pauline 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  them  till  the  women 
met  her  absolutely  as  an  equal;  and  from  the  other 
half-breeds,  who  intermarried  with  one  another  and  were 
content  to  take  a  lower  place  than  the  pure  whites,  she 
held  aloof,  save  when  any  of  them  was  ill  or  in  trouble. 
Then  she  recognized  the  claim  of  race,  and  came  to  their 
doors  with  pity  and  soft  impulses  to  help  them.  French 
and  Scotch  and  English  half-breeds,  as  they  were,  they 
understood  how  she  was  making  a  fight  for  all  who  were 
half-Indian,  half-white,  and  watched  her  with  a  furtive 
devotion,  acknowledging  her  superior  place,  and  proud 
of  it, 

"  I  will  not  stay  here,"  said  the  Indian  mother,  with 
sullen  stubbornness.  "  I  will  go  back  beyond  the 
Warais.  My  life  is  my  own  life,  and  I  will  do  what  I 
like  with  it." 

The  girl  started,  but  became  composed  again  on  the 
instant.  "Is  your  life  all  your  own,  mother?"  she 
asked.  "  I  did  not  come  into  the  world  of  my  own  will. 
If  I  had  I  would  have  come  all  white  or  all  Indian.  I 
am  your  daughter,  and  I  am  here,  good  or  bad — is  your 
life  all  your  own?" 

"  You  can  marry  and  stay  here,  when  I  go.  You  are 
twenty.     I    had   my   man,    your   father,    when    I    was 

I02 


QU' APPELLE 

seventeen.  You  can  marry.  There  are  men.  You 
have  money.  They  will  marry  you — and  forget  the 
rest." 

With  a  cry  of  rage  and  misery  the  girl  sprang  to  her 
feet  and  started  forward,  but  stopped  suddenly  at  sound 
of  a  hasty  knocking  and  a  voice  asking  admittance. 
An  instant  later,  a  huge,  bearded,  broad-shouldered  man 
stepped  inside,  shaking  himself  free  of  the  snow,  laugh- 
ing half-sheepishly  as  he  did  so,  and  laying  his  fur  cap 
and  gloves  with  exaggerated  care  on  the  wide  window- 
sill. 

"John  Alloway,"  said  the  Indian  woman,  in  a  voice 
of  welcome  and  with  a  brightening  eye,  for  it  would 
seem  as  though  he  came  in  answer  to  her  words  of  a  few 
moments  before.  With  a  mother's  instinct  she  had 
divined  at  once  the  reason  for  the  visit,  though  no 
warning  thought  crossed  the  mind  of  the  girl,  who 
placed  a  chair  for  their  visitor  with  a  heartiness  which 
was  real — was  not  this  the  white  man  she  had  saved 
from  death  in  the  snow  a  year  ago?  Her  heart  was 
soft  toward  the  life  she  had  kept  in  the  world.  She 
smiled  at  him,  all  the  anger  gone  from  her  eyes,  and 
there  was  almost  a  touch  of  tender  anxiety  in  her  voice 
as  she  said: 

"What  brought  you  out  in  this  blizzard?  It  wasn't 
safe.  It  doesn't  seem  possible  you  got  here  from  the 
Portage." 

The  huge  ranchman  and  auctioneer  laughed  cheerily. 
"Once  lost,  twice  get  there,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  quiz- 
zical toss  of  the  head,  thinking  he  had  said  a  good  thing. 
"  It's  a  year  ago  to  the  very  day  that  I  was  lost  out 
back" — he  jerked  a  thumb  over  his  shoulder — "and  you 
picked  me  up  and  brought  me  in;  and  what  was  I  to 
do  but  come  out  on  the  anniversary  and  say  thank  you  ? 
I'd  fixed  up  all  year  to  come  to  you,  and  I  wasn't  to  be 
stopped,   'cause  it  was  like  the  day  we  first  met,  old 

103 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Coldmaker  hitting  the  world  with  his  whips  of  frost, 
and  shaking  his  ragged  blankets  of  snow  over  the  wild 
West." 

"Just  such  a  day,"  said  the  Indian  woman,  after  a 
pause.  Pauline  remained  silent,  placing  a  little  bottle 
of  cordial  before  their  visitor,  with  which  he  presently- 
regaled  himself,  raising  his  glass  with  an  air. 

"Many  happy  returns  to  us  both!"  he  said,  and  threw 
the  liqueur  down  his  throat,  smacked  his  lips,  and  drew 
his  hand  down  his  great  mustache  and  beard,  like  some 
vast  animal  washing  its  face  with  its  paw.  Smiling, 
and  yet  not  at  ease,  he  looked  at  the  two  women  and 
nodded  his  head  encouragingly,  but  whether  the  en- 
couragement was  for  himself  or  for  them  he  could  not 
have  told. 

His  last  words,  however,  had  altered  the  situation. 
The  girl  had  caught  at  a  suggestion  in  them  which 
startled  her.  This  rough,  white  plainsman  was  come  to 
make  love  to  her,  and  to  say — what?  He  was  at  once 
awkward  and  confident,  afraid  of  her,  of  her  refinement, 
grace,  beauty,  and  education,  and  yet  confident  in  the 
advantage  of  his  position,  a  white  man  bending  to  a 
half-breed  girl.  He  was  not  conscious  of  the  condescen- 
sion and  majesty  of  his  demeanor,  but  it  was  there,  and 
his  untutored  words  and  ways  must  make  it  all  too 
apparent  to  the  girl.  The  revelation  of  the  moment 
made  her  at  once  triumphant  and  humiliated.  This 
white  man  had  come  to  make  love  to  her,  that  was 
apparent;  but  that  he,  ungrammatical,  crude,  and 
rough,  should  think  he  had  but  to  put  out  his  hand,  and 
she  in  whom  every  subtle  emotion  and  influence  had  deli- 
cate response,  whose  words  and  ways  were  as  far  re- 
moved from  his  as  day  from  night,  would  fly  to  him, 
brought  the  flush  of  indignation  to  her  cheek.  She  re- 
sponded to  his  toast  with  a  pleasant  nod,  however,  and 
said: 

104 


QU' APPELLE 

"  But  if  you  will  keep  coming  in  such  wild  storms, 
there  will  not  be  many  anniversaries."  Laughing,  she 
poured  out  another  glass  of  liqueur  for  him. 

"Well,  now,  p'r'aps  you're  right,  and  so  the  only 
thing  to  do  is  not  to  keep  coming,  but  to  stay — stay 
right  where  you  are." 

The  Indian  woman  could  not  see  her  daughter's  face, 
which  was  turned  to  the  fire,  but  she  herself  smiled  at 
John  Alloway,  and  nodded  her  head  approvingly.  Here 
was  the  cure  for  her  own  trouble  and  loneliness.  Pauline 
and  she,  who  lived  in  different  worlds,  and  yet  were  tied 
to  each  other  by  circumstances  they  could  not  control, 
would  each  work  out  her  own  destiny  after  her  own 
nature,  since  John  Alloway  had  come  a-wooing.  She 
would  go  back  on  the  Warais,  and  Pauline  would  remain 
at  the  Portage,  a  white  woman  with  her  white  man. 
She  would  go  back  to  the  smoky  fires  in  the  huddled 
lodges;  to  the  venison  stew  and  the  snake  dance;  to 
the  feasts  of  the  medicine-men,  and  the  long  sleeps  in 
the  summer  days,  and  the  winter's  tales,  and  be  at 
rest  among  her  own  people;  and  Pauline  would  have 
revenge  of  the  wife  of  the  prancing  Reeve,  and 
perhaps  the  people  would  forget  who  her  mother 
was. 

With  these  thoughts  flying  through  her  sluggish 
mind,  she  rose  and  moved  heavily  from  the  room,  with 
a  parting  look  of  encouragement  at  Alloway,  as  though 
to  say,  a  man  that  is  bold  is  surest. 

With  her  back  to  the  man,  Pauline  watched  her 
mother  leave  the  room,  saw  the  look  she  gave  Alloway. 
When  the  door  was  closed  she  turned  and  looked  Allo- 
way in  the  eyes. 

"How  old  are  you?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 

He  stirred  in  his  seat  nervously.  "  Why,  fifty,  about," 
he  answered,  with  confusion. 

"Then  you'll  be  wise  not  to  go  looking  for  anniver- 

105 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

saries  in  blizzards,  when  they're  few  at  the  best,"  she 
said,  with  a  gentle  and  dangerous  smile. 

"  Fifty — why,  I'm  as  young  as  most  men  of  thirty," 
he  responded,  with  an  uncertain  laugh.  "  I'd  have  come 
here  to-day  if  it  had  been  snowing  pitchforks  and  chain- 
lightning.  I  made  up  my  mind  I  would.  You  saved 
my  life,  that's  dead  sure;  and  I'd  be  down  among  the 
moles  if  it  wasn't  for  you  and  that  Piegan  pony  of  yours. 
Piegan  ponies  are  wonders  in  a  storm— seem  to  know 
their  way  by  instinct.  You,  too — why,  I  bin  on  the 
plains  all  my  life,  and  was  no  better  than  a  baby  that 
day;  but  you — why,  you  had  Piegan  in  you — why,  yes — " 

He  stopped  short  for  a  moment,  checked  by  the  look 
in  her  face,  then  went  blindly  on:  "And  you've  got 
Blackfoot  in  you,  too;  and  you  just  felt  your  way 
through  the  tornado  and  over  the  blind  prairie  like  a 
bird  reaching  for  the  hills.  It  was  as  easy  to  you  as 
picking  out  a  maverick  in  a  bunch  of  steers  to  me. 
But  I  never  could  make  out  what  you  was  doing  on  the 
prairie  that  terrible  day.  I've  thought  of  it  a  hundred 
times.     What  was  you  doing,  if  it  ain't  cheek  to  ask?" 

"I  was  trying  to  lose  a  life,"  she  answered,  quietly, 
her  eyes  dwelling  on  his  face,  yet  not  seeing  him;  for 
it  all  came  back  on  her,  the  agony  which  had  driven  her 
out  into  the  tempest  to  be  lost  evermore. 

He  laughed.  "Well  now,  that's  good,"  he  said; 
"that's  what  they  call  speaking  sarcastic.  You  was 
out  to  save,  and  not  to  lose,  a  life;  that  was  proved  to 
the  satisfaction  of  the  court."  He  paused  and  chuckled 
to  himself,  thinking  he  had  been  witty,  and  continued: 
"  And  I  was  that  court,  and  my  judgment  was  that  the 
debt  of  that  life  you  saved  had  to  be  paid  to  you  within 
one  calendar  year,  with  interest  at  the  usual  per  cent, 
for  mortgages  on  good  security.  That  was  my  judg- 
ment, and  there's  no  appeal  from  it.  I  am  the  great 
Justinian  in  this  case!" 

1 06 


QU'APPELLE 

"Did  you  ever  save  anybody's  life?"  she  asked,  put- 
ting the  bottle  of  cordial  away,  as  he  filled  his  glass  for 
the  third  time. 

"Twice  certain,  and  once  divided  the  honors,"  he 
answered,  pleased  at  the  question. 

"  And  did  you  expect  to  get  any  pay,  with  or  without 
interest?"  she  added. 

"Me!  I  never  thought  of  it  again.  But  yes — ^by  gol, 
I  did!  One  case  was  funny,  as  funny  can  be.  It  was 
Ricky  Wharton  over  on  the  Muskwat  River.  I  saved 
his  life  right  enough,  and  he  came  to  me  a  year  after  and 
said,  '  You  saved  my  life,  now  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  it?  I'm  stony  broke.  I  owe  a  hundred  dollars, 
and  I  wouldn't  be  owing  it  if  you  hadn't  saved  my  life. 
When  you  saved  it  I  was  five  hundred  to  the  good,  and 
I'd  have  left  that  much  behind  me.  Now  I'm  on  the 
rocks,  because  you  insisted  on  saving  my  life;  and  you 
just  got  to  take  care  of  me.'  I  'insisted'!  Well,  that 
knocked  me  silly,  and  I  took  him  on — blame  me,  if  I 
didn't  keep  Ricky  a  whole  year,  till  he  went  north  look- 
ing for  gold.  Get  pay? — why,  I  paid!  Saving  life  has 
its  responsibilities,  little  gal." 

"  You  can't  save  life  without  running  some  risk  your- 
self, not  as  a  rule,  can  you?"  she  said,  shrinking  from 
his  familiarity. 

"  Not  as  a  rule,"  he  replied.  "  You  took  on  a  bit  of 
risk  with  me,  you  and  your  Piegan  pony." 

"Oh,  I  was  young,"  she  responded,  leaning  over  the 
table  and  drawing  faces  on  a  piece  of  paper  before  her. 
"  I  could  take  more  risks,  I  was  only  nineteen!" 

"  I  don't  catch  on,"  he  rejoined.  "  If  it's  sixteen 
or—" 

"Or  fifty,"  she  interposed. 

"What  difference  does  it  make?  If  you're  done  for, 
it's  the  same  at  nineteen  as  fifty,  and  vicey-versey." 

"No,  it's  not  the  same,"  she  answered.     "You  leave 

107 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

so  much  more  that  you  want  to  keep,  when  you  go  at 
fifty." 

"Well,  I  dunno.     I  never  thought  of  that." 

"There's  all  that  has  belonged  to  you.  You've  been 
married,  and  have  children,  haven't  you?" 

He  started,  frowned,  then  straightened  himself.  "  I  got 
one  girl — she's  East  with  her  grandmother,"  he  said,  jerkily. 

"That's  what  I  said;  there's  more  to  leave  behind  at 
fifty,"  she  replied,  a  red  spot  on  each  cheek.  She  was 
not  looking  at  him,  but  at  the  face  of  a  man  on  the 
paper  before  her — a  young  man  with  abundant  hair,  a 
strong  chin,  and  big,  eloquent  eyes;  and  all  around  his 
face  she  had  drawn  the  face  of  a  girl  many  times,  and 
beneath  the  faces  of  both  she  was  writing  Manette  mid 
Julien. 

The  water  was  getting  too  deep  for  John  Alloway. 
He  floundered  toward  the  shore.  "  I'm  no  good  at 
words,"  he  said — "no  good  at  argyment;  but  I've  got 
a  gift  for  stories — round  the  fire  of  a  night,  with  a  pipe 
and  tin  basin  of  tea;  so  I'm  not  going  to  try  and  match 
you.  You've  had  a  good  education  down  at  Winnipeg. 
Took  every  prize,  they  say,  and  led  the  school,  though 
there  was  plenty  of  fuss  because  they  let  you  do  it,  and 
let  you  stay  there,  being  half-Indian.  You  never  heard 
what  was  going  on  outside,  I  s'pose.  It  didn't  matter, 
for  you  won  out.  Blamed  foolishness,  trying  to  draw 
the  line  between  red  and  white  that  way.  Of  course, 
it's  the  women  always,  always  the  women,  striking  out 
for  all-white  or  nothing.  Down  there  at  Portage  they've 
treated  you  mean,  mean  as  dirt.  The  Reeve's  wife — 
well,  we'll  fix  that  up  all  right.  I  guess  John  Alloway 
ain't  to  be  bluffed.  He  knows  too  much,  and  they  all 
know  he  knows  enough.  When  John  Alloway,  3  2  Main 
Street,  with  a  ranch  on  the  Katanay,  says,  '  We're  com- 
ing, Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Alloway  is  coming,'  they'll  get 
out  their  cards  visiie,  I  guess." 

108 


Q  U  '  A  P  P  E  L  L  E 

Pauline's  head  bent  lower,  and  she  seemed  laboriously 
etching  lines  into  the  faces  before  her — Manette  and 
Julien,  Julien  and  Manette;  and  there  came  into  her 
eyes  the  youth  and  light  and  gayety  of  the  days  when 
Julien  came  of  an  afternoon  and  the  river-side  rang 
with  laughter — the  dearest,  lightest  days  she  had  ever 
spent. 

The  man  of  fifty  went  on,  seeing  nothing  but  a  girl 
over  whom  he  was  presently  going  to  throw  the  lasso 
of  his  affection  and  take  her  home  with  him,  yielding 
and  glad,  a  white  man  and  his  half-breed  girl — but  such 
a  half-breed ! 

"  I  seen  enough  of  the  way  some  of  them  women 
treated  you,"  he  continued,  "and  I  sez  to  myself,  Her 
turn  next.  There's  a  way  out,  I  sez,  and  John  Alloway 
pays  his  debts.  When  the  anniversary  comes  round 
I'll  put  things  right,  I  sez  to  myself.  She  saved  my 
life,  and  she  shall  have  the  rest  of  it,  if  she'll  take  it, 
and  will  give  a  receipt  in  full,  and  open  a  new  account 
in  the  name  of  John  and  Pauline  Alloway.  Catch  it? 
See — Pauline?" 

Slowly  she  got  to  her  feet.  There  was  a  look  in  her 
eyes  such  as  had  been  in  her  mother's  a  little  while 
before,  but  a  hundred  times  intensified,  a  look  that 
belonged  to  the  flood  and  flow  of  generations  of  Indian 
life,  yet  controlled  in  her  by  the  order  and  understand- 
ing of  centuries  of  white  men's  lives,  the  pervasive, 
dominating  power  of  race. 

For  an  instant  she  kept  her  eyes  toward  the  window. 
The  storm  had  suddenly  ceased,  and  a  glimmer  of  sun- 
set light  was  breaking  over  the  distant  wastes  of  snow. 

"You  want  to  pay  a  debt  you  think  you  owe,"  she 
said,  in  a  strange,  lustreless  voice,  turning  to  him  at 
last.  "Well,  you  have  paid  it.  You  have  given  me  a 
book  to  read  which  I  will  keep  always.  And  I  give 
you  a  receipt  in  full  for  your  debt." 

109 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"  I  don't  know  about  any  book,"  he  answered,  dazedly. 
"I  want  to  marry  you  right  away." 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  it  is  not  necessary,"  she  replied, 
suggestively.     Her  face  was  very  pale  now. 

"  But  I  want  to.  It  ain't  a  debt.  That  was  only  a 
way  of  putting  it.  I  want  to  make  you  my  wife.  I 
got  some  position,  and  I  can  make  the  West  sit  up  and 
look  at  you  and  be  glad." 

Suddenly  her  anger  flared  out,  low  and  vivid  and 
fierce,  but  her  words  were  slow  and  measured.  "There 
is  no  reason  why  I  should  marry  you — not  one.  You 
ofifer  me  marriage  as  a  prince  might  give  a  penny  to  a 
beggar.  If  my  mother  were  not  an  Indian  woman,  you 
would  not  have  taken  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  But 
my  father  was  a  white  man,  and  I  am  a  white  man's 
daughter,  and  I  would  rather  marry  an  Indian,  who 
would  think  me  the  best  thing  there  was  in  the  light  of 
the  sun,  than  marry  you.  Had  I  been  pure  white  you 
would  not  have  been  so  sure;  you  would  have  asked, 
not  offered.  I  am  not  obliged  to  you.  You  ought  to 
go  to  no  woman  as  you  came  to  me.  See,  the  storm  has 
stopped.  You  will  be  quite  safe  going  back  now.  The 
snow  will  be  deep,  perhaps,  but  it  is  not  far." 

She  went  to  the  window,  got  his  cap  and  gloves,  and 
handed  them  to  him.  He  took  them,  dumfounded  and 
overcome. 

"  Say,  I  ain't  done  it  right,  mebbe,  but  I  meant  well, 
and  I'd  be  good  to  you  and  proud  of  you,  and  I'd  love 
you  better  than  anything  I  ever  saw,"  he  said,  shame- 
facedly, but  eagerly  and  honestly,  too. 

"  Ah,  you  should  have  said  those  last  words  first," 
she  answered. 

"  I  say  them  now." 

"They  come  too  late;  but  they  would  have  been  too 
late  in  any  case,"  she  added.  "Still,  I  am  glad  you 
said  them." 

no 


QU'APPELLE 

She  opened  the  door  for  him. 

"  I  made  a  mistake,"  he  urged,  humbly.  "  I  under- 
stand better  now.     I  never  had  any  schoolin'." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that,"  she  answered,  gently.  "Good- 
bye." 

Suddenly  he  turned.  "  You're  right — it  couldn't  ever 
be,"  he  said.  "You're — you're  great.  And  I  owe  you 
my  life  still!" 

He  stepped  out  into  the  biting  air. 

For  a  moment  Pauline  stood  motionless  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  her  gaze  fixed  upon  the  door  which  had 
just  closed;  then,  with  a  wild  gesture  of  misery  and 
despair,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  couch  in  a  passionate 
outburst  of  weeping.  Sobs  shook  her  from  head  to 
foot,  and  her  hands,  clenched  above  her  head,  twitched 
convulsively. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  her  mother  looked  in 
eagerly.  At  what  she  saw  her  face  darkened  and  hard- 
ened for  an  instant,  but  then  the  girl's  utter  abandon- 
ment of  grief  and  agony  convinced  and  conquered  her. 
Some  glimmer  of  the  true  understanding  of  the  problem 
which  Pauline  represented  got  into  her  heart  and  drove 
the  sullen  selfishness  from  her  face  and  eyes  and  mind. 
She  came  over  heavily  and,  sinking  upon  her  knees, 
swept  an  arm  around  the  girl's  shoulder.  She  realized 
what  had  happened,  and  probably  this  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  that  she  had  ever  come  by  instinct  to 
a  revelation  of  her  daughter's  mind  or  of  the  faithful 
meaning  of  incidents  of  their  lives. 

"You  said  no  to  John  Alloway,"  she  murmured. 

Defiance  and  protest  spoke  in  the  swift  gesture  of  the 
girl's  hands.  "  You  think  becaus^  he  was  white  that 
I'd  drop  into  his  arms!     No — no — no!" 

"  You  did  right,  Httlc  one." 

The  sobs  suddenly  stopped,  and  the  girl  seemed  to 
listen  with  all  her  body.     There  was  something  in  her 

III 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Indian  mother's  voice  she  had  never  heard  before — at 
least,  not  since  she  was  a  Httle  child  and  swung  in  a 
deer  -  skin  hammock  in  a  tamarac  -  tree  by  Renton's 
Lodge,  where  the  chiefs  met  and  the  West  paused  to 
rest  on  its  onward  march.  Something  of  the  accents 
of  the  voice  that  crooned  to  her  then  was  in  the  woman's 
tones  now. 

"  He  offered  it  like  a  lump  of  sugar  to  a  bird — I  know. 
He  didn't  know  that  you  have  great  blood — yes,  but  it 
is  true.  My  man's  grandfather,  he  was  of  the  t>lood 
of  the  kings  of  England.  My  man  had  the  proof.  And 
for  a  thousand  years  my  people  have  been  chiefs.  There 
is  no  blood  in  all  the  West  like  yours.  My  heart  was 
heavy,  and  dark  thoughts  came  to  me,  because  my  man 
is  gone,  and  the  life  is  not  my  life,  and  I  am  only  an 
Indian  woman  from  the  Warais,  and  my  heart  goes  out 
there  always  now.  But  some  great  Medicine  has  been 
poured  into  my  heart.  As  I  stood  at  the  door  and  saw 
you  lying  there,  I  called  to  the  Sun.  'O  great  Spirit,' 
I  said,  '  help  me  to  understand,  for  this  girl  is  bone  of 
my  bone  and  flesh  of  my  flesh,  and  Evil  has  come 
between  us!'  And  the  Sun  Spirit  poured  the  Medicine 
into  my  spirit,  and  there  is  no  cloud  between  us  now. 
It  has  passed  away,  and  I  see.  Little  white  one,  the 
white  life  is  the  only  life,  and  I  will  live  it  with  you  till 
a  white  man  comes  and  gives  you  a  white  man's  home. 
But  not  John  Alloway.  Shall  the  crow  nest  with  the 
oriole?" 

As  the  woman  spoke  with  slow,  measured  voice  full 
of  the  cadences  of  a  heart  revealing  itself,  the  girl's 
breath  at  first  seemed  to  stop,  so  still  she  lay;  then,  as 
the  true  understanding  of  the  words  came  to  her,  she 
panted  with  excitemient,  her  breast  heaved,  and  the 
blood  flushed  her  face.  When  the  slow  voice  ceased, 
and  the  room  became  still,  she  lay  quiet  for  a  moment, 
letting    the    new    thing    find    secure    lodgment    in    her 

112 


g  U  '  A  r  1'  E  L  L  E 

thought;  then,  suddenly,  she  raised  herself  and  threw 
her  arms  round  her  mother  in  a  passion  of  affection. 

"Lalika!  O  mother  Lalika!"  she  said,  tenderly,  and 
kissed  her  again  and  again.  Not  since  she  was  a  little 
girl,  long  before  they  left  the  Warais,  had  she  called  her 
mother  by  her  Indian  name,  which  her  father  had  hu- 
morously taught  her  to  do  in  those  far-off  happy  days 
by  the  beautiful,  singing  river  and  the  exquisite  woods, 
when,  with  a  bow  and  arrow,  she  had  ranged,  a  young 
Diana  who  slew  only  with  love. 

"  Lalika,  mother  Lalika,  it  is  like  the  old,  old  times," 
she  added,  softly.  "Ah,  it  does  not  matter  now,  for 
you  understand!" 

"  I  do  not  understand  altogether,"  murmured  the  Ind- 
ian woman,  gently.  "I  am  not  white,  and  there  is  a 
different  way  of  thinking;  but  I  will  hold  your  hand, 
and  we  will  live  the  white  life  together." 

Cheek  to  cheek  they  saw  the  darkness  come,  and 
afterwards  the  silver  moon  steal  up  over  a  frozen  w^orld, 
in  which  the  air  bit  like  steel  and  braced  the  heart  like 
wine.  Then,  at  last,  before  it  was  nine  o'clock,  after 
her  custom,  the  Indian  woman  went  to  bed,  leaving  her 
daughter  brooding  peacefully  by  the  fire. 

For  a  long  time  Pauline  sat  with  hands  clasped  in 
her  lap,  her  gaze  on  the  tossing  flames,  in  her  heart  and 
mind  a  new  feeling  of  strength  and  purpose.  The  way 
before  her  was  not  clear,  she  saw  no  further  than  this 
day,  and  all  that  it  had  brought;  yet  she  was  as  one 
that  has  crossed  a  direful  flood  and  finds  herself  on  a 
strange  shore  in  an  unknown  country,  with  the  twilight 
about  her,  yet  with  so  much  of  danger  passed  that  there 
was  only  the  thought  of  the  moment's  safety  round  her, 
the  camp-fire  to  be  lit,  and  the  bed  to  be  made  under 
the  friendly  trees  and  stars. 

For  a  half-hour  she  sat  so,  and  then,  suddenly,  she 
raised  her  head  listening,  leaning  toward  the  window, 

"3 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

through  which  the  moonlight  streamed.  She  heard  her 
name  called  without,  distinct  and  strange — ''Pauline! 
Pauline!" 

Starting  up,  she  ran  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  All 
was  silent  and  cruelly  cold.  Nothing  but  the  wide  plain 
of  snow  and  the  steely  air.  But  as  she  stood  intently 
listening,  the  red  glow  from  the  fire  behind  her,  again 
came  the  cry — "Pauline!" — not  far  away.  Her  heart 
beat  hard,  and  she  raised  her  head  and  called — why  was 
it  she  should  call  out  in  a  language  not  her  own? — 
"  Qu'appelle  ?     Qu'appelle  ?" 

And  once  again  on  the  still  night  air  came  the  trem- 
bling appeal,  "Pauline!" 

"Qu'appellef  Qu'appelle?"  she  cried;  then,  with  a 
gasping  murmur  of  understanding  and  recognition  she 
ran  forward  in  the  frozen  night  toward  the  sound  of 
the  voice.  The  same  intuitive  sense  which  had  made 
her  call  out  in  French,  without  thought  or  reason,  had 
revealed  to  her  who  it  was  that  called;  or  was  it  that 
even  in  the  one  word  uttered  there  was  the  note  of  a 
voice  always  remembered  since  those  days  with  Manette 
at  Winnipeg  ? 

Not  far  away  from  the  house,  on  the  way  to  Portage 
la  Drome,  but  a  little  distance  from  the  road,  was  a 
crevasse,  and  toward  this  she  sped,  for  once  before  an 
accident  had  happened  there.  Again  the  voice  called 
as  she  sped — "Pauline!" — and  she  cried  out  that  she 
was  coming.  Presently  she  stood  above  the  declivity, 
and  peered  over.  Almost  immediately  below  her,  a  few 
feet  down,  was  a  man  lying  in  the  snow.  He  had  strayed 
from  the  obliterated  road,  and  had  fallen  down  the 
crevasse,  twisting  his  foot  cruelly.  Unable  to  walk,  he 
had  crawled  several  hundred  yards  in  the  snow,  but 
his  strength  had  given  out,  and  then  he  had  called  to 
the  house,  on  whose  dark  windows  flickered  the  flames 
of  the  fire,  the  name  of  the  girl  he  had  come  so  far  to  see. 

114 


PAULINE,"       HE      SAID.       FEEBLY.       AND       FAINTED       IN        HER       ARMS 


QU' APPELLE 

With  a  cry  of  joy  and  pain  at  once  she  recognized 
him  now.  It  was  as  her  heart  had  said — it  was  JuHen, 
Manette's  brother.  In  a  moment  she  was  beside  him, 
her  arm  around  his  shoulder. 

"PauHne!"  he  said,  feebly,  and  fainted  in  her  arms. 
An  instant  later  she  was  speeding  to  the  house,  and, 
rousing  her  mother  and  two  of  the  stablemen,  she 
snatched  a  flask  of  brandy  from  a  cupboard  and  has- 
tened back. 

An  hour  later  Julien  Labrosse  lay  in  the  great  sitting- 
room  beside  the  fire,  his  foot  and  ankle  bandaged,  and 
at  ease,  his  face  alight  with  all  that  had  brought  him 
there.  And  once  again  the  Indian  mother  with  a  sure 
instinct  knew  why  he  had  come,  and  saw  that  now  her 
girl  would  have  a  white  man's  home,  and,  for  her  man, 
one  of  the  race  like  her  father's  race,  white  and  con- 
quering. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  give  trouble,"  Julien  said,  laughing — he 
had  a  trick  of  laughing  lightly;  "but  I'll  be  able  to  get 
back  to  the  Portage  to-morrow." 

To  this  the  Indian  mother  said,  however:  "To  please 
yourself  is  a  great  thing,  but  to  please  others  is  better; 
and  so  you  will  stay  here  till  you  can  walk  back  to  the 
Portage,  M'sieu'  Julien." 

"Well,  I've  never  been  so  comfortable,"  he  said — 
"never  so  happy.     If  you  don't  mind  the  trouble!" 

The  Indian  woman  nodded  pleasantly,  and  found  an 
excuse  to  leave  the  room.  But  before  she  went  she 
contrived  to  place  near  his  elbow  one  of  the  scraps  of 
paper  on  which  Pauline  had  drawn  his  face,  with  that 
of  Manette.  It  brought  a  light  of  hope  and  happiness 
into  his  eyes,  and  he  thrust  the  paper  under  the  fur 
robes  of  the  couch. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  your  life?"  Pauline  asked 
him,  as  his  eyes  sought  hers  a  few  moments  later. 

"Oh,  I  have  a  big  piece  of  work  before  me,"  he  an- 
9  iif; 


NORTHERN     LIGHTS 

swered,  eagerly,  "  a  great  chance — to  build  a  bridge  over 
the  St.  Lawrence,  and  I'm  only  thirty!  I've  got  my 
start.  Then,  I've  made  over  the  old  Seigneury  my 
father  left  me,  and  I'm  going  to  live  in  it.  It  will  be  a 
fine  place,  when  I've  done  with  it,  comfortable  and  big, 
with  old  oak  timbers  and  walls,  and  deep  fireplaces, 
and  carvings  done  in  the  time  of  Louis  Quinze,  and 
dark-red  velvet  curtains  for  the  drawing-room,  and 
skins  and  furs.  Yes,  I  must  have  skins  and  furs  like 
these  here."     He  smoothed  the  skins  with  his  hand. 

"Manette,  she  will  live  with  you?"  Pauline  asked. 

"Oh  no,  her  husband  wouldn't  like  that.  You  see, 
Manette  is  to  be  married.  She  told  me  to  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

He  told  her  all  that  was  to  tell  of  Manette's  court- 
ship, and  added  that  the  wedding  would  take  place  in 
the  spring. 

"  Manette  wanted  it  when  the  leaves  first  flourish 
and  the  birds  come  back,"  he  said,  gayly;  "and  so  she's 
not  going  to  live  with  me  at  the  Seigneury,  you  see. 
No,  there  it  is,  as  fine  a  house,  good  enough  for  a  prince, 
and  I  shall  be  there  alone,  unless — " 

His  eyes  met  hers,  and  he  caught  the  light  that  was 
in  them  before  the  eyelids  drooped  over  them  and  she 
turned  her  head  to  the  fire.  "  But  the  spring  is  two 
months  off  yet,"  he  added. 

"The  spring?"  she  asked,  puzzled,  yet  half  afraid  to 
speak. 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  into  my  new  house  when  Manette 
goes  into  her  new  house — in  the  spring.  And  I  won't 
go  alone  if — " 

He  caught  her  eyes  again,  but  she  rose  hurriedly  and 
said:  "You  must  sleep  now.  Good-night."  She  held 
out  her  hand. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  rest  to-morrow — to-morrow 
night,  when  it's  quiet  like  this,  and  the  stars  shine,"  he 

ii6 


QU' APPELLE 

answered.     "  I'm  going  to  have  a  home  of  my  own  like 
this — ah,  bien  silr,  Pauline." 

That  night  the  old  Indian  mother  prayed  to  the  Sun. 
"O  great  Spirit,"  she  said,  "I  give  thanks  for  the 
Medicine  poured  into  my  heart.  Be  good  to  my  white 
child  when  she  goes  with  her  man  to  the  white  man's 
home  far  away.  O  great  Spirit,  when  I  return  to  the 
lodges  of  my  people,  be  kind  to  me,  for  I  shall  be  lonely; 
I  shall  not  have  my  child;  I  shall  not  hear  my  white 
man's  voice.  Give  me  good  Medicine,  O  Sun  and  great 
Father,  till  my  dream  tells  me  that  my  man  comes  from 
over  the  hills  for  me  once  more." 


THE   STAKE   AND  THE   PLUMB-LINE 

She  went  against  all  good  judgment  in  marrying 
him;  she  cut  herself  off  from  her  own  people,  from 
the  life  in  which  she  had  been  an  alluring  and  beautiful 
figure.  Washington  had  never  had  two  such  seasons 
as  those  in  which  she  moved;  for  the  diplomatic  circle 
who  had  had  "the  run  of  the  world"  knew  her  value, 
and  were  not  content  without  her.  She  might  have 
made  a  brilliant  match  with  one  ambassador  thirty 
years  older  than  herself — she  was  but  twenty-two;  and 
there  were  at  least  six  attaches  and  secretaries  of  lega- 
tion who  entered  upon  a  tournament  for  her  heart  and 
hand ;  but  she  was  not  for  them.  All  her  fine  faculties 
of  tact  and  fairness,  of  harmless  strategy,  and  her  gifts 
of  wit  and  unexpected  humor  were  needed  to  keep  her 
cavaliers  constant  and  hopeful  to  the  last;  but  she 
never  faltered,  and  she  did  not  fail.  The  faces  of  old 
men  brightened  when  they  saw  her,  and  one  or  two 
ancient  figures  who,  for  years,  had  been  seldom  seen  at 
social  functions  now  came  when  they  knew  she  was  to 
be  present.  There  were,  of  course,  a  few  women  who 
said  she  would  coquette  with  any  male  from  nine  to 
ninety;  but  no  man  ever  said  so;  and  there  was  none, 
from  first  to  last,  but  smiled  with  pleasure  at  even  the 
mention  of  her  name,  so  had  her  vivacity,  intelligence, 
and  fine  sympathy  conquered  them.  She  was  a  social 
artist  by  instinct.  In  their  hearts  they  all  recognized 
how  fair  and  impartial  she  was;  and  she  drew  out  of 
every  man  the  best  that  was  in  him.     The  few  women 

ii8 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

who  did  not  like  her  said  that  she  chattered;  but  the 
truth  was  she  made  other  people  talk  by  swift  suggestion 
or  delicate  interrogation. 

After  the  blow  fell,  Freddy  Hartzman  put  the  matter 
succinctly,  and  told  the  truth  faithfully,  when  he  said: 
"The  first  time  I  met  her,  I  told  her  all  I'd  ever  done 
that  could  be  told,  and  all  I  wanted  to  do;  including  a 
resolve  to  carry  her  off  to  some  desert  place  and  set  up 
a  Kingdom  of  Two.  I  don't  know  how  she  did  it.  I 
was  like  a  tap,  and  poured  myself  out;  and  when  it  was 
all  over  I  thought  she  was  the  best  talker  I'd  ever  heard. 
But  yet  she'd  done  nothing  except  look  at  me  and  lis- 
ten, and  put  in  a  question  here  and  there,  that  was  like 
a  baby  asking  to  see  your  watch.  Oh,  she  was  a  lily- 
flower,  was  Sally  Seabrook,  and  I've  never  been  sorry 
I  told  her  all  my  little  story!  It  did  me  good.  Poor 
darling — it  makes  me  sick  sometimes  when  I  think  of  it. 
Yet  she'll  win  out  all  right — a  hundred  to  one  she'll  win 
out.     She  was  a  star." 

Freddy  Hartzman  was  in  an  embassy  of  repute;  he 
knew  the  chancelleries  and  salons  of  many  nations,  and 
was  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  ablest  and  shrewdest  men 
in  the  diplomatic  service.  He  had  written  one  of  the 
best  books  on  international  law  in  existence,  he  talked 
English  like  a  native,  he  had  published  a  volume  of 
delightful  verse,  and  had  omitted  to  publish  several 
others,  including  a  tiny  volume  which  Sally  Seabrook's 
charms  had  inspired  him  to  write.  His  view  of  her  was 
shared  by  most  men  who  knew  the  world,  and  especially 
by  the  elderly  men  who  had  a  real  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  among  whom  was  a  certain  important  member 
of  the  United  States  executive  called  John  Appleton. 
When  the  end  of  all  things  at  Washington  came  for 
Sally,  these  two  men  united  to  bear  her  up.  that  her 
feet  should  not  stumble  upon  the  stony  path  of  the  hard 
journey  she  had  undertaken. 

119 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Appleton  was  not  a  man  of  much  speech;  but  his 
words  had  weight;  for  he  was  not  only  a  minister;  he 
came  of  an  old  family  which  had  ruled  the  social  des- 
tinies of  a  state,  and  had  alternately  controlled  and  dis- 
turbed its  politics.  On  the  day  of  the  sensation,  in  the 
fiery  cloud  of  which  Sally  disappeared,  Appleton  de- 
livered himself  of  his  mind  in  the  matter  at  a  reception 
given  by  the  President. 

"  She  will  come  back — and  we  will  all  take  her  back, 
be  glad  to  have  her  back,"  he  said.  "  She  has  the  grip 
of  a  lever  which  can  lift  the  eternal  hills  with  the  right 
pressure.  Leave  her  alone — leave  her  alone.  This  is 
a  democratic  country,  and  she'll  prove  democracy  a 
success  before  she's  done." 

The  world  knew  that  John  Appleton  had  offered  her 
marriage,  and  he  had  never  hidden  the  fact.  What 
they  did  not  know  was  that  she  had  told  him  what  she 
meant  to  do  before  she  did  it.  He  had  spoken  to  her 
plainly,  bluntly,  then  with  a  voice  that  was  blurred  and 
a  little  broken,  urging  her  against  the  course  toward 
which  she  was  set;  but  it  had  not  availed;  and,  realizing 
that  he  had  come  upon  a  powerful  will  underneath  the 
sunny  and  so  himian  surface,  he  had  ceased  to  protest, 
to  bear  down  upon  her  mind  with  his  own  iron  force. 
When  he  reaHzed  that  all  his  reasoning  was  wasted,  that 
all  worldly  argument  was  vain,  he  made  one  last  at- 
tempt, a  forlorn  hope,  as  though  to  put  upon  record 
what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth. 

"There  is  no  position  you  cannot  occupy,"  he  said. 
"  You  have  the  perfect  gift  in  private  life,  and  you  have 
a  public  gift.  You  have  a  genius  for  ruling.  Say,  my 
dear,  don't  wreck  it  all.  I  know  you  are  not  for  me, 
but  there  are  better  men  in  the  country  than  I  am. 
Hartzman  will  be  a  great  man  one  day — he  wants  you. 
Young  Tilden  wants  you;  he  has  millions,  and  he  will 
never  disgrace  them  or  you,  the  power  which  they  can 

I20 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

command,  and  the  power  which  you  have.  And  there 
are  others.  Your  people  have  told  you  they  will  turn 
you  off;  the  world  will  say  things — will  rend  you. 
There  is  nothing  so  popular  for  the  moment  as  the  fall 
of  a  favorite.  But  that's  nothing — it's  nothing  at  all 
compared  with  the  danger  to  yourself.  I  didn't  sleep 
last  night  thinking  of  it.  Yet  I'm  glad  you  wrote  me; 
it  gave  me  time  to  think,  and  I  can  tell  you  the  truth 
as  I  see  it.  Haven't  you  thought  that  he  will  drag  you 
down,  down,  down,  wear  out  your  soul,  break  and  sicken 
your  life,  destroy  your  beauty — yoa  are  beautiful,  my 
dear,  beyond  what  the  world  sees,  even.  Give  it  up — 
ah,  give  it  up,  and  don't  break  our  hearts!  There  are 
too  many  people  loving  you  for  you  to  sacrifice  them — 
and  yourself,  too.  .  .  .  You've  had  such  a  good  time!" 

"It's  been  like  a  dream,"  she  interrupted,  in  a  far- 
away voice — "like  a  dream,  these  two  years." 

"And  it's  been  such  a  good  dream,"  he  urged;  "and 
you  will  only  go  to  a  bad  one,  from  which  you  will  never 
wake.  The  thing  has  fastened  on  him;  he  will  never 
give  it  up.  And  penniless,  too — his  father  has  cast  him 
off.  My  girl,  it's  impossible.  Listen  to  me.  There's  no 
one  on  earth  that  would  do  more  for  you  than  I  would — 
no  one." 

"  Dear,  dear  friend!"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  impulse, 
and  caught  his  hand  in  hers  and  kissed  it  before  he 
could  draw  it  back.  "  You  are  so  true,  and  you  think 
you  are  right.  But,  but" — her  eyes  took  on  a  deep, 
steady,  far-away  look — "but  I  will  save  him;  and  we 
shall  not  be  penniless  in  the  end.  Meanwhile  I  have 
seven  hundred  dollars  a  year  of  my  own.  No  one  can 
touch  that.  Nothing  can  change  me  now — and  I  have 
promised." 

When  he  saw  her  fixed  determination,  he  made  no 
further  protest,  but  asked  that  he  might  help  her,  be 
with  her  the  next  day,  when  she  was  to  take  a  step 

121 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

which  the  wise  world  would  say  must  lead  to  sorrow  and 
a  miserable  end. 

The  step  she  took  was  to  marry  Jim  Templeton,  the 
drunken,  cast-off  son  of  a  millionaire  senator  from  Ken- 
tucky, who  controlled  railways  and  owned  a  bank,  and 
had  so  resented  his  son's  inebriate  habits  that  for  five 
years  he  had  never  permitted  Jim's  name  to  be  men- 
tioned in  his  presence.  Jim  had  had  twenty  thousand 
dollars  left  him  by  his  mother,  and  a  small  income  of 
three  hundred  dollars  from  an  investment  which  had 
been  made  for  him  when  a  little  boy.  And  this  had 
carried  him  on;  for,  drunken  as  he  was,  he  had  sense 
enough  to  eke  out  the  money,  limiting  himself  to  three 
thousand  dollars  a  year.  He  had  four  thousand  dollars 
left,  and  his  tiny  income  of  three  hundred,  when  he  went 
to  Sally  Seabrook,  after  having  been  sober  for  a  month, 
and  begged  her  to  marry  him. 

Before  dissipation  had  made  him  look  ten  years  older 
than  he  was,  there  had  been  no  handsomer  man  in  all 
America.  Even  yet  he  had  a  remarkable  face:  long, 
delicate,  with  dark-brown  eyes,  as  fair  a  forehead  as 
man  could  wish,  and  black,  waving  hair,  streaked  with 
gray — gray,  though  he  was  but  twenty-nine  years  of  age. 

When  Sally  was  fifteen  and  he  twenty-two,  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  her  and  she  with  him;  and  nothing 
had  broken  the  early  romance.  He  had  captured  her 
young  imagination,  and  had  fastened  his  image  on  her 
heart.  Her  people,  seeing  the  drift  of  things,  had  sent 
her  to  a  school  on  the  Hudson,  and  the  two  did  not 
meet  for  some  time.  Then  came  a  stolen  interview, 
and  a  fastening  of  the  rivets  of  attraction — for  Jim  had 
gifts  of  a  wonderful  kind.  He  knew  his  Horace  and 
Anacreon  and  Heine  and  Lamartine  and  Dante  in  the 
originals,  and  a  hundred  others;  he  was  a  speaker  of 
power  and  grace;  and  he  had  a  clear,  strong  head  for 
business.     He  was  also  a  lawyer,  and  was  junior  attorney 

122 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

to  his  father's  great  business.  It  was  because  he  had 
the  real  business  gift,  not  because  he  had  a  brilHant  and 
scholarly  mind,  that  his  father  had  taken  him  into  his 
concerns,  and  was  the  more  unforgiving  when  he  gave 
way  to  temptation.  Otherwise,  he  would  have  pensioned 
Jim  off,  and  dismissed  him  from  his  mind  as  a  useless, 
insignificant  person;  for  Horace,  Anacreon,  and  philoso- 
phy and  history  were  to  him  the  recreations  of  the  feeble- 
minded. He  had  set  his  heart  on  Jim,  and  what  Jim 
could  do  and  would  do  by-and-by  in  the  vast  financial 
concerns  he  controlled,  when  he  was  ready  to  slip  out 
and  down;  but  Jim  had  disappointed  him  beyond  cal- 
culation. 

In  the  early  days  of  their  association  Jim  had  left 
his  post  and  taken  to  drink  at  critical  moments  in  their 
operations.  At  first,  high  words  had  been  spoken,  then 
there  came  the  strife  of  two  dissimilar  natures,  and  both 
were  headstrong,  and  each  proud  and  unrelenting  in  his 
own  way.  Then,  at  last,  had  come  the  separation,  irrev- 
ocable and  painful;  and  Jim  had  flung  out  into  the  world, 
a  drunkard,  who,  sober  for  a  fortnight,  or  a  month,  or 
three  months,  would  afterward  go  off  on  a  spree,  in 
which  he  quoted  Sappho  and  Horace  in  taverns,  and 
sang  bacchanalian  songs  with  a  voice  meant  for  the 
stage — a  heritage  from  an  ancestor  who  had  sung  upon 
the  English  stage  a  hundred  years  before.  Even  in  his 
cups,  even  after  his  darling  vice  had  submerged  him, 
Jim  Templeton  was  a  man  marked  out  from  his  fellows, 
distinguished  and  very  handsome.  Society,  however, 
had  ceased  to  recognize  him  for  a  long  time,  and  he  did 
not  seek  it.  For  two  or  three  years  he  practised  law 
now  and  then.  He  took  cases,  preferably  criminal 
cases,  for  which  very  often  he  got  no  pay;  but  that, 
too,  ceased  at  last.  Now,  in  his  quiet,  sober  intervals 
he  read  omnivorously,  and  worked  out  problems  in 
physics  for  which  he  had  a  taste,  until  the  old  appetite 

123 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

surged  over  him  again.  Then  his  spirits  rose,  and  he 
was  the  old  brilhant  talker,  the  joyous  galliard  until, 
in  due  time,  he  became  silently  and  lethargically 
drunk. 

In  one  of  his  sober  intervals  he  had  met  Sally  Sea- 
brook  in  the  street.  It  was  the  first  time  in  four  years, 
for  he  had  avoided  her.  and,  though  she  had  written  to 
him  once  or  twice,  he  had  never  answered  her — shame 
was  in  his  heart.  Yet  all  the  time  the  old  song  was  in 
Sally's  ears.  Jim  Templeton  had  touched  her  in  some 
distant  and  intimate  corner  of  her  nature  where  none 
other  had  reached;  and  in  all  her  gay  life,  when  men 
had  told  their  tale  of  admiration  in  their  own  way,  her 
mind  had  gone  back  to  Jim,  and  what  he  had  said  un- 
der the  magnolia-trees;  and  his  voice  had  drowned  all 
others.  She  was  not  blind  to  what  he  had  become,  but 
a  deep  belief  possessed  her  that  she,  of  all  the  world, 
could  save  him.  She  knew  how  futile  it  would  look  to 
the  world,  how  wild  a  dream  it  looked  even  to  her  own 
heart,  how  perilous  it  was;  but,  play  upon  the  surface 
of  things  as  she  had  done  so  much  and  so  often  in  her 
brief  career,  she  was  seized  of  convictions  having  origin, 
as  it  might  seem,  in  something  beyond  herself. 

So  when  she  and  Jim  met  in  the  street,  the  old,  true 
thing  rushed  upon  them  both,  and  for  a  moment  they 
.stood  still  and  looked  at  each  other.  As  they  might 
look  who  say  farewell  forever,  so  did  each  dwell  upon 
the  other's  face.  That  was  the  beginning  of  the  new 
epoch.  A  few  days  more,  and  Jim  came  to  her  and 
said  that  she  alone  could  save  him;  and  she  meant 
him  to  say  it,  had  led  him  to  the  saying,  for  the  same 
conviction  was  burned  deep  in  her  own  soul.  She  knew 
the  awful  risk  she  was  taking,  that  the  step  must  mean 
social  ostracism,  and  that  her  own  people  would  be  no 
kinder  to  her  than  society;  but  she  gasped  a  prayer, 
smiled  at  Jim  as  though  all  were  well,  laid  her  plans, 

124 


THE    STxVKE    A  xV  D    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

made  him  promise  her  one  thing  on  his  knees,  and  took 
the  plunge. 

Her  people  did  as  she  expected.  She  was  threatened 
with  banishment  from  heart  and  home  —  with  disin- 
heritance; but  she  pursued  her  course;  and  the  only 
person  who  stood  with  her  and  Jim  at  the  altar  was 
John  Appleton,  who  would  not  be  denied,  and  who  had 
such  a  half-hour  with  Jim  before  the  ceremony  as  neither 
of  them  forgot  in  the  years  that  the  locust  ate  there- 
after. And,  standing  at  the  altar,  Jim's  eyes  were  still 
wet,  with  new  resolves  in  his  heart  and  a  being  at  his 
side  meant  for  the  best  man  in  the  world.  As  he  knelt 
beside  her,  awaiting  the  benediction,  a  sudden  sense  of 
the  enormity  of  this  act  came  upon  him,  and  for  her 
sake  he  would  have  drawn  back  then,  had  it  not  been 
too  late.  He  realized  that  it  was  a  crime  to  put  this 
young,  beautiful  life  in  peril;  that  his  own  life  was  a 
poor,  contemptible  thing,  and  that  he  had  been  pos- 
sessed of  the  egotism  of  the  selfish  and  the  young. 

But  the  thing  was  done,  and  a  new  life  was  begun. 
Before  they  were  launched  upon  it,  however,  before 
society  had  fully  grasped  the  sensation,  or  they  had 
left  upon  their  journey  to  northern  Canada,  where  Sally 
intended  they  should  work  out  their  problem  and  make 
their  home,  far  and  free  from  all  old  associations,  a 
curious  thing  happened.  Jim's  father  sent  an  urgent 
message  to  Sally  to  come  to  him.  When  she  came,  he 
told  her  she  was  mad,  and  asked  her  why  she  had 
thrown  her  life  away. 

"Why  have  you  done  it?"  he  said.  "You — you 
knew  all  about  him;  you  might  have  married  the  best 
man  in  the  country.  You  could  rule  a  kingdom;  you 
have  beauty  and  power,  and  make  people  do  what  you 
want;    and  you've  got  a  sot." 

"He  is  your  son,"  she  answered,  quietly. 

She  looked  so  beautiful  and  so  fine  as  she  stood  there, 

125 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

fearless  and  challenging  before  him,  that  he  was  moved. 
But  he  would  not  show  it. 

"  He  was  my  son — when  he  was  a  man,"  he  retorted 
grimly. 

"He  is  the  son  of  the  woman  you  once  loved,"  she 
answered. 

The  old  man  turned  his  head  away. 

"  What  would  she  have  said  to  what  you  did  to  Jim  ?" 

He  drew  himself  around  sharply.  Her  dagger  had 
gone  home,  but  he  would  not  let  her  know  it. 

"Leave  her  out  of  the  question — she  was  a  saint,"  he 
said,  roughly. 

"  She  cannot  be  left  out ;  nor  can  you.  He  got  his 
temperament  naturally;  he_  inherited  his  weakness. 
From  your  grandfather,  from  her  father.  Do  you  think 
you  are  in  no  way  responsible?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  but  then  said,  stubbornly: 
"  Why — why  have  you  done  it  ?  What's  between  him 
and  me  can't  be  helped;  we  are  father  and  son;  but 
you — you  had  no  call,  no  responsibility." 

"  I  love  Jim.  I  always  loved  him,  ever  since  I  can 
remember,  as  you  did.  I  see  my  way  ahead.  I  will 
not  desert  him.  No  one  cares  what  happens  to  him, 
no  one  but  me.  Your  love  wouldn't  stand  the  test; 
mine  will." 

"  Your  folks  have  disinherited  you — you  have  almost 
nothing,  and  I  will  not  change  my  mind.  What  do  you 
see  ahead  of  you?" 

"Jim — only  Jim — and  God." 

Her  eyes  were  shining,  her  hands  were  clasped  to- 
gether at  her  side  in  the  tenseness  of  her  feeling,  her 
indomitable  spirit  spoke  in  her  face. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  brought  his  fist  down  on  the 
table  with  a  bang.  "  It's  a  crime — oh,  it's  a  crime,  to 
risk  your  life  so!  You  ought  to  have  been  locked  up. 
I'd  have  done  it." 

126 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

"Listen  to  me,"  she  rejoined,  quietly.  "I  know  the 
risk.  But  do  you  think  that  I  could  have  Hved  my  Hfe 
out,  feehng  that  I  might  have  saved  Jim  and  didn't  try  ? 
You  talk  of  beauty  and  power  and  ruling  —  you  say 
what  others  have  said  to  me.  Which  is  the  greater  thing, 
to  get  what  pleases  one,  or  to  work  for  something  which 
is  more  to  one  than  all  else  in  the  world?  To  save  one 
life,  one  intellect,  one  great  man — oh,  he  has  the  making 
of  a  great  man  in  him! — to  save  a  soul,  would  not  life 
be  well  lost,  would  not  love  be  well  spent,  in  doing  it?" 

"Love's  labor  lost,"  said  the  old  man,  slowly,  cyni- 
cally, but  not  without  emotion. 

"  I  have  ambition,"  she  continued.  "  No  girl  was  ever 
more  ambitious,  but  my  ambition  is  to  make  the  most 
and  best  of  myself.  Place  ? — Jim  and  I  will  hold  it  yet. 
Power? — it  shall  be  as  it  must  be;  but  Jim  and  I  will 
work  for  it  to  fulfil  ourselves.  For  me — ah,  if  I  can  save 
him — and  I  mean  to  do  so! — do  you  think  that  I  would 
not  then  have  my  heaven  on  earth  ?  You  w^ant  money 
— money — money,  power,  and  to  rule;  and  these  are  to 
you  the  best  things  in  the  world.  I  make  my  choice 
differently,  though  I  would  have  these  other  things  if  I 
could;  and  I  hope  I  shall.  But  Jim  first — Jim  first, 
your  son,  Jim — my  husband,  Jim!" 

The  old  man  got  to  his  feet  slowly.  She  had  him  at 
bay.  "But  you  are  great,"  he  said,  "great!  It  is  an 
awful  stake — awful!  Yet,  if  you  win,  you'll  have  what 
money  can't  buy.  And  listen  to  me.  We'll  make  the 
stake  bigger.  It  will  give  it  point,  too,  in  another  way. 
If  you  keep  Jim  sober  for  four  years  from  the  day  of 
your  marriage,  on  the  last  day  of  that  four  years  I'll  put 
in  your  hands  for  you  and  him,  or  for  your  child — if  you 
have  one — five  millions  of  dollars.  I  am  a  man  of  my 
word.  While  Jim  drinks  I  won't  take  him  back;  he's 
disinherited.  I'll  give  him  nothing  now  or  hereafter. 
Save  him  for  four  years — if  he  can  do  that  he  will  do 

127 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

all — and  there's  five  millions  as  sure  as  the  sun's  in 
heaven.     Amen  and  amen." 

He  opened  the  door.  There  was  a  strange,  soft  light 
in  her  eyes  as  she  came  to  go. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me?"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  whimsically. 

He  was  disconcerted.  She  did  not  wait,  but  reached 
up  and  kissed  him  on  the  cheek.  "  Good-bye,"  she  said, 
with  a  smile.     "  We'll  win  the  stake.     Good-bye." 

An  instant  and  she  was  gone.  He  shut  the  door,  then 
turned  and  looked  in  a  mirror  on  the  wall.  Abstracted- 
ly he  touched  the  cheek  she  had  kissed.  Suddenly  a 
change  passed  over  his  face.  He  dropped  in  a  chair, 
and  his  fist  struck  the  table  as  he  said:  "By  God,  she 
may  do  it,  she  may  do  it!  But  it's  life  and  death — it's 
life  and  death." 

Society  had  its  sensation,  and  then  the  veil  dropped. 
For  a  long  time  none  looked  behind  it  except  Jim's 
father.  He  had  too  much  at  stake  not  to  have  his 
telescope  upon  them.  A  detective  followed  them  to 
keep  Jim's  record.     But  this  they  did  not  know. 


II 

From  the  day  they  left  Washington  Jim  put  his  life 
and  his  fate  in  his  wife's  hands.  He  meant  to  follow 
her  judgment,  and,  self-willed  and  strong  in  intellect  as 
he  was,  he  said  that  she  should  have  a  fair  chance  of 
fulfilling  her  purpose.  There  had  been  many  pour 
parleys  as  to  what  Jim  should  do.  There  was  farming. 
She  set  that  aside,  because  it  meant  capital,  and  it 
also  meant  monotony  and  loneliness;  and  capital  was 
limited,  and  monotony  and  loneliness  were  bad  for  Jim, 
deadening  an  active  brain  which  must  not  be  deprived 
of  stimulants — stimulants  of  a  different  sort,  however, 

128 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE     PLUMB-LINE 

from  those  which  had  heretofore  mastered  it.  There 
was  the  law.  But  Jim  would  have  to  become  a  citizen 
of  Canada,  change  his  flag,  and  where  they  meant  to  go 
— to  the  outskirts— there  would  be  few  opportunities 
for  the  law;  and  with  not  enough  to  do  there  would  be 
danger.  Railway  construction?  That  seemed  good  in 
many  ways,  but  Jim  had  not  the  professional  knowledge 
necessary;  his  railway  experience  with  his  father  had 
only  been  financial.  Above  all  else  he  must  have  re- 
sponsibility, discipline,  and  strict  order  in  his  life. 

"  Something  that  will  be  good  for  my  natural  vanity, 
and  knock  the  nonsense  out  of  me,"  Jim  agreed,  as  they 
drew  farther  and  farther  away  from  Washington  and 
the  past,  and  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  Far  North  and 
their  future.  Never  did  two  more  honest  souls  put 
their  hands  in  each  other's,  and  set  forth  upon  the 
thorniest  path  to  a  goal  which  was  their  heart's  desire. 
Since  they  had  become  one,  there  had  come  into  Sally's 
face  that  illumination  which  belongs  only  to  souls  pos- 
sessed of  an  idea  greater  than  themselves,  outside  them- 
selves— saints,  patriots;  faces  which  have  been  washed 
in  the  salt  tears  dropped  for  others'  sorrows  and  lighted 
by  the  fire  of  self-sacrifice.  Sally  Seabrook,  the  high- 
spirited,  the  radiant,  the  sweetly  wilful,  the  provoking, 
to  concentrate  herself  upon  this  narrow  theme — to  re- 
conquer the  lost  paradise  of  one  vexed  mortal  soul! 

What  did  Jim's  life  mean?  It  was  only  one  in  the 
millions  coming  and  going,  and  every  man  must  work 
out  his  own  salvation.  Why  should  she  cramp  her  soul 
to  this  one  issue,  when  the  same  soul  could  spend  itself 
upon  the  greater  motives  and  in  the  larger  circle  ?  A 
wide  world  of  influence  had  opened  up  before  her; 
position,  power,  adulation,  could  all  have  been  hers,  as 
John  Appleton  and  Jim's  father  had  said.  She  might 
have  moved  in  well-trodden  ways,  through  gardens  of 
pleasure,  lived  a  life  where  all  would  be  made  easy,  where 

129 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

she  would  be  shielded  at  every  turn,  and  her  beauty 
would  be  flattered  by  luxury  into  a  constant  glow.  She 
was  not  so  primitive,  so  unintellectual,  as  not  to  have 
thought  of  this,  else  her  decision  would  have  had  less 
importance;  she  would  have  been  no  more  than  an 
infatuated,  emotional  woman  with  a  touch  of  second- 
class  drama  in  her  nature.  She  had  thought  of  it  all, 
and  she  had  made  her  choice.  The  easier  course  was  the 
course  for  meaner  souls,  and  she  had  not  one  vein  of  thin 
blood  nor  a  small  idea  in  her  whole  nature.  She  had  a 
heart  and  mind  for  great  issues.  She  believed  that  Jim 
had  a  great  brain,  and  would  and  could  accomplish  great 
things.  She  knew  that  he  had  in  him  the  strain  of 
hereditary  instinct — his  mother's  father  had  ended  a 
brief  life  in  a  drunken  duel  on  the  Mississippi,  and  Jim's 
boyhood  had  never  had  discipline  or  direction,  or  any 
strenuous  order.  He  might  never  acquire  order,  and 
the  power  that  order  and  habit  and  the  daily  iteration 
of  necessary  thoughts  and  acts  bring;  but  the  prospect 
did  not  appal  her.  She  had  taken  the  risk  with  her 
eyes  wide  open;  had  set  her  own  life  and  happiness  in 
the  hazard.  But  Jim  must  be  saved,  must  be  what  his 
talents,  his  genius,  entitled  him  to  be.  And  the  long 
game  must  have  the  long  thought. 

So,  as  they  drew  into  the  great  Saskatchewan  Valley, 
her  hand  in  his,  and  hope  in  his  eyes,  and  such  a  look 
of  confidence  and  pride  in  her  as  brought  back  his  old, 
strong  beauty  of  face  and  smoothed  the  careworn  lines 
of  self-indulgence,  she  gave  him  his  course:  as  a  private 
he  must  join  the  North-West  Mounted  Police,  the  red- 
coated  riders  of  the  plains,  and  work  his  way  up  through 
every  stage  of  responsibility,  beginning  at  the  foot  of 
the  ladder  of  humbleness  and  self-control.  She  believed 
that  he  would  agree  with  her  proposal;  but  her  hands 
clasped  his  a  little  more  firmly  and  solicitously — there 
was  a  faint,  womanly  fear  at  her  heart — as  she  asked 

130 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

him  if  he  would  do  it.  The  Hfe  meant  more  than  occa- 
sional separation;  it  meant  that  there  would  be  periods 
when  she  would  not  be  with  him;  and  there  was  great 
danger  in  that;  but  she  knew  that  the  risks  must  be 
taken,  and  he  must  not  be  wholly  reliant  on  her  presence 
for  his  moral  strength. 

His  face  fell  for  a  moment  when  she  made  the  sug- 
gestion, but  it  cleared  presently,  and  he  said,  with  a 
dry  laugh:  "Well,  I  guess  they  must  make  me  a  ser- 
geant pretty  quick.  I'm  a  colonel  in  the  Kentucky 
Carbineers!" 

She  laughed,  too;  then  a  moment  afterward,  woman- 
hke,  wondered  if  she  was  right,  and  was  a  little  frightened. 
But  that  was  only  because  she  was  not  self-opinionated, 
and  was  anxious,  more  anxious  than  any  woman  in  all 
the  North. 

It  happened  as  Jim  said;  he  was  made  a  sergeant  at 
once — Sally  managed  that;  for,  when  it  came  to  the 
point,  she  saw  the  conditions  in  which  the  privates 
lived,  and  reahzed  that  Jim  must  be  one  of  them,  and 
clean  out  the  stables,  and  groom  his  horse  and  the 
officers'  horses,  and  fetch  and  carry,  her  heart  failed 
her,  and  she  thought  that  she  was  making  her  remedy 
needlessly  heroical.  So,  she  went  to  see  the  commis- 
sioner, who  was  on  a  tour  of  scrutiny  on  their  arrival 
at  the  post,  and,  as  better  men  than  he  had  done  in 
more  knowing  circles,  he  fell  under  her  spell.  If  she 
had  asked  for  a  lieutenancy,  he  would  probably  have 
corrupted  some  member  of  Parliament  into  securing  it 
for  Jim. 

But  Jim  was  made  a  sergeant,  and  the  commissioner 
and  the  captain  of  the  troop  kept  their  eyes  on  him.  So 
did  other  members  of  the  troop  who  did  not  quite  know 
their  man,  and  attempted,  figuratively,  to  pinch  him 
here  and  there.  They  found  that  his  actions  were 
greater  than  his  words,  and  both  were  in  perfect  har- 
lo  131 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

mony  in  the  end,  though  his  words  often  seemed  point- 
less to  their  minds,  until  they  understood  that  they  had 
conveyed  truths  through  a  medium  more  like  a  he- 
liograph than  a  telephone.  By-and-by  they  began  to 
understand  his  heliographing,  and,  when  they  did  that, 
they  began  to  swear  by  him,  not  at  him. 

In  time  it  was  found  that  the  troop  never  had  a  better 
disciplinarian  than  Jim.  He  knew  when  to  shut  his 
eyes,  and  when  to  keep  them  open.  To  non-essentials 
he  kept  his  eyes  shut;  to  essentials  he  kept  them  very 
wide  open.  There  were  some  men  of  good  birth  from 
England  and  elsewhere  among  them,  and  these  mostly 
understood  him  first.  But  they  all  understood  Sally 
from  the  beginning,  and  after  a  little  they  were  glad 
enough  to  be  permitted  to  come,  on  occasion,  to  the 
five-roomed  little  house  near  the  barracks,  and  hear 
her  talk,  then  answer  her  questions,  and,  as  men  had 
done  at  Washington,  open  out  their  hearts  to  her.  They 
noticed,  however,  that  while  she  made  them  barley- 
water,  and  all  kinds  of  soft  drinks  from  citric  acid, 
sarsaparilla,  and  the  like,  and  had  one  special  drink  of 
her  own  invention,  which  she  called  cream-nectar,  no 
spirits  were  to  be  had.  They  also  noticed  that  Jim 
never  drank  a  drop  of  liquor,  and  by-and-by,  one  way 
or  another,  they  got  a  ghmmer  of  the  real  truth,  before 
it  became  known  who  he  really  was  or  anything  of  his 
story.  And  the  interest  in  the  two,  and  in  Jim's  ref- 
ormation, spread  through  the  country,  while  Jim  gained 
reputation  as  the  smartest  man  in  the  force. 

They  were  on  the  outskirts  of  civilization — as  Jim 
used  to  say,  "One  step  ahead  of  the  procession."  Jim's 
duty  was  to  guard  the  columns  of  settlement  and  prog- 
ress, and  to  see  that  every  man  got  his  own  rights  and 
not  more  than  his  rights;  that  justice  should  be  the 
plumb-line  of  march  and  settlement.  His  principle  was 
embodied  in  certain  words  which   he   quoted  once  to 

132 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

Sally  from  the  prophet  Amos — "And  the  Lord  said 
unto  me,  Amos,  what  seest  thou?  And  I  said,  A  plumb- 
line.'' 

On  the  day  that  Jim  became  a  lieutenant  his  family 
increased  by  one.  It  was  a  girl,  and  they  called  her 
Nancy,  after  Jim's  mother.  It  was  the  anniversary  of 
their  marriage,  and,  so  far,  Jim  had  won,  with  what 
fightings  and  strugglings  and  wrestlings  of  the  spirit  only 
Sally  and  himself  knew.  And  she  knew  as  well  as  he, 
and  always  saw  the  storm  coming  before  it  broke — a 
restlessness,  then  a  moodiness,  then  a  hungry,  eager, 
helpless  look,  and  afterward  an  agony  of  longing,  a 
feverish  desire  to  break  away  and  get  the  thrilling  thing 
which  would  still  the  demon  within  him. 

There  had  been  moments  when  his  doom  seemed 
certain — he  knew  and  she  knew  that  if  he  once  got 
drunk  again  he  would  fall  never  to  rise.  On  one  occa- 
sion, after  a  hard,  long,  hungry  ride,  he  was  half-mad 
with  desire,  but  even  as  he  seized  the  flask  that  was 
offered  to  him  by  his  only  enemy,  the  captain  of  B 
Troop,  at  the  next  station  eastward,  there  came  a  sud- 
den call  to  duty,  two  hundred  Indians  having  gone  upon 
the  war-path.  It  saved  him,  it  broke  the  spell.  He 
had  to  mount  and  away,  with  the  antidote  and  stimulant 
of  responsibility  driving  him  on. 

Another  occasion  was  equally  perilous  to  his  safety. 
They  had  been  idle  for  days  in  a  hot  week  in  summer, 
waiting  for  orders  to  return  from  the  rail-head  where 
they  had  gone  to  quell  a  riot,  and  where  drink  and 
hilarity  were  common.  Suddenly — more  suddenly  than 
it  had  ever  come,  the  demon  of  his  thirst  had  Jim  by 
the  throat.  Sergeant  Sewell,  of  the  gray-stubble  head, 
who  loved  him  more  than  his  sour  heart  had  loved 
anybody  in  all  his  life,  was  holding  himself  ready  for 
the  physical  assault  he  must  make  upon  his  superior 
officer  if  he   raised  a  glass  to  his  lips,  when  salvation 

133 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

came  once  again.  An  accident  had  occurred  far  down 
on  the  railway  hne,  and  the  operator  of  the  telegraph- 
office  had  that  very  day  been  stricken  down  with 
pleurisy  and  pneumonia.  In  despair  the  manager  had 
sent  to  Jim,  eagerly  hoping  that  he  might  help  them, 
for  the  Riders  of  the  Plains  were  a  sort  of  court  of 
appeal  for  every  trouble  in  the  Far  North. 

Instantly  Jim  was  in  the  saddle  with  his  troop.  Out 
of  curiosity  he  had  learned  telegraphy  when  a  boy,  as 
he  had  learned  many  things,  and,  arrived  at  the  scene 
of  the  accident,  he  sent  messages  and  received  them — 
by  sound,  not  on  paper  as  did  the  official  operator,  to 
the  amazement  and  pride  of  the  troop.  Then,  between 
caring  for  the  injured  in  the  accident,  against  the  coming 
of  the  relief  train,  and  nursing  the  sick  operator  through 
the  dark  moments  of  his  dangerous  illness,  he  passed  a 
crisis  of  his  own  disease  triumphantly;  but  not  the  last 
crisis. 

So  the  first  and  so  the  second  and  third  years  passed 
in  safety. 

Ill 

"  Please,  I  want  to  go,  too,  Jim." 

Jim  swung  round  and  caught  the  child  up  in  his  arms. 

"Say,  how  dare  you  call  your  father  Jim — eh,  tell 
me  that?" 

"It's  what  mummy  calls  you — it  s  pretty." 

"  I  don't  call  her  'mummy'  because  you  do,  and  you 
mustn't  call  me  Jim  because  she  does — do  you  hear?" 

The  whimsical  face  lowered  a  little,  then  the  rare  and 
beautiful  dark-blue  eyes  raised  slowly,  shaded  by  the 
long  lashes,  and  the  voice  said,  demurely,  "Yes — Jim." 

"  Nancy — Nancy,"  said  a  voice  from  the  corner  in 
reproof,  mingled  with  suppressed  laughter.  "Nancy, 
you  mustn't  be  saucy.     You  must  say  'father'  to — " 

134 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

"Yes,  mummy.     I'll  say  father  to — ^Jim." 

"You  imp — you  imp  of  delight,"  said  Jim,  as  he 
strained  the  dainty  little  lass  to  his  breast,  while  she 
appeared  interested  in  a  wave  of  his  black  hair,  which 
she  curled  around  her  finger. 

Sally  came  forward  with  the  little  parcel  of  sandwiches 
she  had  been  preparing,  and  put  them  in  the  saddle- 
bags lying  on  a  chair  at  the  door,  in  readiness  for  the 
journey  Jim  was  about  to  make.  Her  eyes  were  glis- 
tening, and  her  face  had  a  heightened  color.  The  three 
years  which  had  passed  since  she  married  had  touched 
her  not  at  all  to  her  disadvantage,  rather  to  her  profit. 
She  looked  not  an  hour  older;  motherhood  had  only 
added  to  her  charm,  lending  it  a  delightful  gravity. 
The  prairie  life  had  given  a  shining  quality  to  her  hand- 
someness, an  air  of  depth  and  firmness,  an  exquisite 
health  and  clearness  to  the  color  in  her  cheeks.  Her 
step  was  as  light  as  Nancy's,  elastic  and  buoyant — a 
gliding  motion  which  gave  a  sinuous  grace  to  the  move- 
ments of  her  body.  There  had  also  come  into  her  eyes 
a  vigilance  such  as  deaf  people  possess,  a  sensitive  ob- 
servation imparting  a  deeper  intelligence  to  the  face. 

Here  was  the  only  chance  by  which  you  could  guess 
the  story  of  her  life.  Her  eyes  were  like  the  ears  of  an 
anxious  mother  who  can  never  sleep  till  every  child  is 
abed;  whose  sense  is  quick  to  hear  the  faintest  footstep 
without  or  within;  and  who,  as  years  go  on,  and  her 
children  grow  older  and  older,  must  still  lie  awake 
hearkening  for  the  late  footstep  on  the  stair.  In  Sally's 
eyes  was  the  story  of  the  past  three  years:  of  love  and 
temptation  and  struggle,  of  watchfulness  and  yearning 
and  anxiety,  of  determination  and  an  inviolable  hope. 
Her  eyes  had  a  deeper  look  than  that  in  Jim's.  Now, 
as  she  gazed  at  him,  the  maternal  spirit  rose  up  from 
the  great  well  of  protectiveness  in  her  and  engulfed 
both  husband  and  child.     There  was  always  something 

135 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

of  the  maternal  in  her  eyes  when  she  looked  at  Jim. 
He  did  not  see  it — he  saw  only  the  wonderful  blue,  and 
the  humor  which  had  helped  him  over  such  difficult 
places  these  past  three  years.  In  steadying  and  strength- 
ening Jim's  will,  in  developing  him  from  his  Southern 
indolence  into  Northern  industry  and  sense  of  respon- 
sibility, John  Appleton's  warnings  had  rung  in  Sally's 
ears,  and  Freddy  Hartzman's  forceful  and  high-minded 
personality  had  passed  before  her  eyes  with  an  appeal 
powerful  and  stimulating;  but  always  she  came  to  the 
same  upland  of  serene  faith  and  white-hearted  resolve; 
and  Jim  became  dearer  and  dearer. 

The  baby  had  done  much  to  brace  her  faith  in  the 
future  and  comfort  her  anxious  present.  The  child  had 
intelligence  of  a  rare  order.  She  would  lie  by  the  half- 
hour  on  the  floor,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book  with- 
out pictures,  and,  before  she  could  speak,  would  read 
from  the  pages  in  a  language  all  her  own.  She  made  a 
fairy  world  for  herself,  peopled  by  characters  to  whom 
she  gave  names,  to  whom  she  assigned  curious  attributes 
and  qualities.  They  were  as  real  to  her  as  though  flesh 
and  blood,  and  she  was  never  lonely,  and  never  cried; 
and  she  had  buried  herself  in  her  father's  heart.  She 
had  drawn  to  her  the  roughest  men  in  the  troop,  and 
for  old  Sewell,  the  grim  sergeant,  she  had  a  specially 
warm  place. 

"  You  can  love  me  if  you  like,"  she  had  said  to  him 
at  the  very  start,  with  the  egotism  of  childhood;  but 
made  haste  to  add,  "because  I  love  you,  Gri-Gri."  She 
called  him  Gri-Gri  from  the  first,  but  they  knew  only 
long  afterward  that  "gri-gri"  meant  "gray-gray,"  to 
signify  that  she  called  him  after  his  grizzled  hairs. 

What  she  had  been  in  the  life-history  of  Sally  and 
Jim  they  both  knew.  Jim  regarded  her  with  an  almost 
superstitious  feeling.  Sally  was  his  strength,  his  sup- 
port,  his  inspiration,   his  bulwark  of  defence;    Nancy 

136 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

was  the  charm  he  wore  about  his  neck — his  mascot,  he 
called  her.  Once,  when  she  was  ill,  he  had  suffered  as 
he  had  never  done  before  in  his  life.  He  could  not 
sleep  nor  eat,  and  went  about  his  duties  like  one  in  a 
dream.  When  his  struggles  against  his  enemy  were 
fiercest,  he  kept  saying  over  her  name  to  himself,  as 
though  she  could  help  him.  Yet  always  it  was  Sally's 
hand  he  held  in  the  darkest  hours,  in  his  brutal  mo- 
ments; for  in  this  fight  between  appetite  and  will  there 
are  moments  when  only  the  animal  seems  to  exist,  and 
the  soul  disappears  in  the  glare  and  gloom  of  the  primal 
emotions.  Nancy  he  called  his  "lucky  sixpence,"  but 
he  called  Sally  his  "guinea-girl." 

From  first  to  last  his  whimsicality  never  deserted  him. 
In  his  worst  hours,  some  innate  optimism  and  humor 
held  him  steady  in  his  fight.  It  was  not  depression  that 
possessed  him  at  the  worst,  but  the  violence  of  an 
appetite  most  like  a  raging  pain  which  men  may  endure 
with  a  smile  upon  their  lips.  He  carried  in  his  face  the 
story  of  a  conflict,  the  aftermath  of  bitter  experience; 
and  through  all  there  pulsed  the  glow  of  experience. 
He  had  grown  handsomer,  and  the  graceful  decision  of 
his  figure,  the  deliberate  certainty  of  every  action, 
heightened  the  force  of  a  singular  personality.  As  in 
the  eyes  of  Sally,  in  his  eyes  was  a  long,  reflective  look 
which  told  of  things  overcome,  and  yet  of  dangers 
present.  His  lips  smiled  often,  but  the  eyes  said:  "I 
have  lived,  I  have  seen,  I  have  suffered,  and  I  must 
suffer  more.  I  have  loved,  I  have  been  loved  under 
the  shadow  of  the  sword.  Happiness  I  have  had,  and 
golden  hours,  but  not  peace — never  peace.  My  soul 
has  need  of  peace." 

In  the  greater,  deeper  experience  of  their  lives,  the 
more  material  side  of  existence  had  grown  less  and  less 
to  them.  Their  home  was  a  model  of  simple  comfort 
and  some  luxury,  though  Jim  had  insisted  that  Sally's 

137 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

income  should  not  be  spent,  except  upon  the  child,  and 
should  be  saved  for  the  child,  their  home  being  kept  on 
his  pay  and  on  the  tiny  income  left  by  his  mother. 
With  the  help  of  an  Indian  girl,  and  a  half-breed  for 
out-door  work  and  fires  and  gardening,  Sally  had  cared 
for  the  house  herself.  Ingenious  and  tasteful,  with  a 
gift  for  cooking  and  an  educated  hand,  she  had  made 
her  little  home  as  pretty  as  their  few  possessions  would 
permit.  Refinement  covered  all,  and  three  or  four 
score  books  were  like  so  many  friends  to  comfort  her 
when  Jim  was  away;  like  kind  and  genial  neighbors 
when  he  was  at  home.  From  Browning  she  had  written 
down  in  her  long,  sliding  handwriting,  and  hung  up  be- 
neath Jim's  looking-glass,  the  heartening  and  inspiring 
words: 

"One  who  never  turned  his  back,   but  marched  breast 
forward. 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would 

triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake." 

They  had  lived  above  the  sordid,  and  there  was 
something  in  the  nature  of  Jim's  life  to  help  them  to  it. 
He  belonged  to  a  small  handful  of  men  who  had  con- 
trol over  an  empire,  with  an  individual  responsibility 
and  influence  not  contained  in  the  scope  of  their  com- 
missions. It  was  a  matter  of  moral  force  and  character, 
and  of  uniform,  symbolical  only  of  the  great  power  be- 
hind; of  the  long  arm  of  the  State;  of  the  insistence  of 
the  law,  which  did  not  rely  upon  force  alone,  but  on 
the  certainty  of  its  administration.  In  such  conditions 
the  smallest  brain  was  bound  to  expand,  to  take  on 
qualities  of  judgment  and  temperateness  which  would 
never  be  developed  in  ordinary  circumstances.     In  the 

138 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

case  of  Jim  Tcmplcton,  who  needed  no  stimulant  to  his 
intellect,  but  rather  a  steadying  quality,  a  sense  of  pro- 
portion, the  daily  routine,  the  command  of  men,  the 
diverse  nature  of  his  duties,  half  civil,  half  military,  the 
personal  appeals  made  on  all  sides  by  the  people  of  the 
country  for  advice,  for  help,  for  settlement  of  disputes, 
for  information  which  his  well-instructed  mind  could 
give — all  these  modified  the  romantic  brilliance  of  his 
intellect,  made  it  and  himself  more  human. 

It  had  not  come  to  him  all  at  once.  His  intellect  at 
first  stood  in  his  way.  His  love  of  paradox,  his  deep 
observation,  his  insight — all  made  him  inherently  satiri- 
cal, though  not  cruelly  so;  but  satire  had  become  pure 
whimsicality  at  last;  and  he  came  to  see  that,  on  the 
whole,  the  world  was  imperfect,  but  also,  on  the  whole, 
was  moving  toward  perfection  rather  than  imperfection. 
He  grew  to  realize  that  what  seemed  so  often  weakness 
in  men  was  tendency  and  idiosyncrasy  rather  than  evil. 
And  in  the  end  he  thought  better  of  himself  as  he  came 
to  think  better  of  all  others.  For  he  had  thought  less 
of  all  the  world  because  he  had  thought  so  little  of  him- 
self. He  had  overestimated  his  own  faults,  had  made 
them  into  crimes  in  his  own  eyes,  and,  observing  things 
in  others  of  similar  import,  had  become  almost  a  cynic 
in  intellect,  while  in  heart  he  had  remained  a  boy. 

In  all  that  he  had  changed  a  great  deal.  His  heart 
was  still  the  heart  of  a  boy,  but  his  intellect  had  sobered, 
softened,  ripened— even  in  this  secluded  and  seemingly 
unimportant  life;  as  Sally  had  said  and  hoped  it  would. 
Sally's  conviction  had  been  right.  But  the  triumph  was 
not  yet  achieved.  She  knew  it.  On  occasion  the  tones 
of  his  voice  told  her,  the  look  that  came  into  his  eyes 
proclaimed  it  to  her,  his  feverishness  and  restlessness 
made  it  certain.  How  many  a  night  had  she  thrown 
her  arm  over  his  shoulder  and  sought  his  hand  and  held 
it  while  in  the  dark  silence,  wide-eyed,  dry-lipped,  and 

139 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

with  a  throat  like  fire  he  had  held  himself  back  from 
falling.  There  was  liquor  in  the  house — the  fight  would 
not  have  been  a  fight  without  it.  She  had  determined 
that  he  should  see  his  enemy  and  meet  him  in  the  plains 
and  face  him  down;  and  he  was  never  many  feet  away 
from  his  possible  disaster.  Yet  for  long  over  three  years 
all  had  gone  well.  There  was  another  year.  Would  he 
last  out  the  course? 

At  first  the  thought  of  the  great  stake  for  which  she 
was  playing  in  terms  of  currency,  with  the  head  of  Jim's 
father  on  every  note,  was  much  with  her.  The  amazing 
nature  of  the  offer  of  five  millions  of  dollars  stimulated 
her  imagination,  roused  her;  gold  coins  are  counters  in 
the  game  of  success,  signs  and  tokens.  Money  alone 
could  not  have  lured  her ;  but  rather  what  it  represented 
— power,  width  of  action,  freedom  to  help  when  the 
heart  prompted,  machinery  for  carrying  out  large  plans, 
ability  to  surround  with  advantage  those  whom  we  love. 
So,  at  first,  while  yet  the  memories  of  Washington  were 
much  with  her,  the  appeal  of  the  millions  was  strong. 
The  gallant  nature  of  the  contest  and  the  great  stake 
braced  her;  she  felt  the  blood  quicken  in  her  pulse. 

But,  all  through,  the  other  thing  really  mastered  her: 
the  fixed  idea  that  Jim  must  be  saved.  As  it  deepened, 
the  other  life  that  she  had  lived  became  like  the  sports 
in  which  we  shared  when  children,  full  of  vivacious 
memory,  shining  with  impulse  and  the  stir  of  life,  but 
not  to  be  repeated — days  and  deeds  outgrown.  So  the 
light  of  one  idea  shone  in  her  face.  Yet  she  was  in- 
tensely human  too;  and  if  her  eyes  had  not  been  set 
on  the  greater  glory,  the  other  thought  might  have 
vulgarized  her  mind,  made  her  end  and  goal  sordid — 
the  descent  of  a  nature  rather  than  its  ascension. 

When  Nancy  came,  the  lesser  idea,  the  stake,  took  on 
a  new  importance,  for  now  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  secure  for  the  child  its  rightful  heritage. 

140 


THE  STAKE  AND  THE  PLUMB-LINE 

Then  Jim,  too,  appeared  in  a  new  light,  as  one  who 
could  never  fulfil  himself  unless  working"  through  the 
natural  channels  of  his  birth,  inheritance,  and  upbring- 
ing. Jim,  drunken  and  unreliable,  with  broken  will 
and  fighting  to  fimd  himself — the  waste  places  were  for 
him,  until  he  was  the  master  of  his  will  and  emotions. 
Once,  however,  secure  in  ability  to  control  himself,  with 
cleansed  brain  and  purpose  defined,  the  widest  field 
would  be  still  be  too  narrow  for  his  talents — and  the 
five,  yes,  the  fifty  millions  of  his  father  must  be  his. 

She  had  never  repented  having  married  Jim;  but 
twice  in  those  three  years  she  had  broken  down  and 
wept  as  though  her  heart  would  break.  There  were 
times  when  Jim's  nerves  were  shaken  in  his  struggle 
against  the  unseen  foe,  and  he  had  spoken  to  her  queru- 
lously, almost  sharply.  Yet  in  her  tears  there  was  no 
reproach  for  him,  rather  for  herself — the  fear  that  she 
might  lose  her  influence  over  him,  that  she  could  not 
keep  him  close  to  her  heart,  that  he  might  drift  away 
from  her  in  the  commonplaces  and  monotony  of  work 
and  domestic  life.  Everything  so  depended  on  her 
being  to  him  not  only  the  one  woman  for  whom  he 
cared,  but  the  woman  without  whom  he  could  care  for 
nothing  else. 

"O,  my  God,  give  me  his  love,"  she  had  prayed. 
"  Let  me  keep  it  yet  a  little  while.  For  his  sake,  not 
for  my  own,  let  me  have  the  power  to  hold  his  love. 
Make  my  mind  always  quiet,  and  let  me  blow  neither 
hot  nor  cold.  Help  me  to  keep  my  temper  sweet  and 
cheerful,  so  that  he  will  find  the  room  empty  where  I 
am  not,  and  his  footsteps  will  quicken  when  he  comes 
to  the  door.  Not  for  my  sake,  dear  God,  but  for  his, 
or  my  heart  will  break — it  will  break  unless  Thou  dost 
help  me  to  hold  him.  O  Lord,  keep  me  from  tears; 
make  my  face  happy  that  I  may  be  goodly  to  his  eyes, 
and  forgive  the  selfishness  of  a  poor  woman  who  has 

141 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

little,  and  would  keep  her  little  and  cherish  it,  for'Christ's 
sake." 

Twice  had  she  poured  out  her  heart  so,  in  the  agony 
of  her  fear  that  she  should  lose  favor  in  Jim's  sight — 
she  did  not  know  how  alluring  she  was,  in  spite  of  the 
constant  proofs  offered  her.  She  had  had  her  will  with 
all  who  came  her  way,  from  Governor  to  Indian  brave. 
Once,  in  a  journey  they  had  made  far  north,  soon  after 
they  came,  she  had  stayed  at  a  Hudson  Bay  Com- 
pany's post  for  some  days,  while  there  came  news  of 
restlessness  among  the  Indians,  because  of  lack  of  food, 
and  Jim  had  gone  farther  north  to  steady  the  tribes, 
leaving  her  with  the  factor  and  his  wife  and  a  half- 
breed  servant. 

While  she  and  the  factor's  wife  were  alone  in  the 
yard  of  the  post  one  day,  an  Indian  chief.  Arrowhead, 
in  war-paint  and  feathers,  entered  suddenly,  brandish- 
ing a  long  knife.  He  had  been  drinking,  and  there  was 
danger  in  his  black  eyes.  With  a  sudden  inspiration 
she  came  forward  quickly,  nodded  and  smiled  to  him, 
and  then  pointed  to  a  grindstone  standing  in  the  corner 
of  the  yard.  As  she  did  so,  she  saw  Indians  crowding 
into  the  gate  armed  with  knives,  guns,  bows,  and 
arrows.  She  beckoned  to  Arrowhead,  and  he  followed 
her  to  the  grindstone.  She  poured  some  water  on  the 
wheel  and  began  to  turn  it,  nodding  at  the  now  im- 
passive Indian  to  begin.  Presently  he  nodded  also, 
and  put  his  knife  on  the  stone.  She  kept  turning 
steadily,  singing  to  herself  the  while,  as  with  anxiety 
she  saw  the  Indians  drawing  closer  and  closer  in  from 
the  gate.  Faster  and  faster  she  turned,  and  at  last  the 
Indian  lifted  his  knife  from  the  stone.  She  reached 
out  her  hand  with  simulated  interest,  felt  the  edge  with 
her  thumb,  the  Indian  looking  darkly  at  her  the  while. 
Presently,  after  feeling  the  edge  himself,  he  bent  over 
the  stone  again,  and  she  went  on  turning  the  wheel, 

142 


SHE      KEPT     TURNING      STEADILY.     SINGING     TO      HERSELF 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

still  singing  softly.  At  last  he  stopped  again  and  felt 
the  edge.  With  a  smile  which  showed  her  fine,  white 
teeth,  she  said,  "Is  that  for  me?"  making  a  significant 
sign  across  her  throat  at  the  same  time. 

The  old  Indian  looked  at  her  grimly,  then  slowly 
shook  his  head  in  negation. 

"  I  go  hunt  Yellow  Hawk  to-night,"  he  said.  "  I  go 
fight;  I  like  marry  you  when  I  come  back.  How!"  he 
said,  and  turned  away  toward  the  gate. 

Some  of  his  braves  held  back,  the  blackness  of  death 
in  their  looks.  He  saw.  "My  knife  is  sharp,"  he  said. 
"The  woman  is  brave.  She  shall  live — go  and  fight 
Yellow  Hawk,  or  starve  and  die." 

Divining  their  misery,  their  hunger,  and  the  savage 
thought  that  had  come  to  them,  Sally  had  whispered  to 
the  factor's  wife  to  bring  food,  and  the  woman  now  came 
running  out  with  two  baskets  full,  and  returned  for 
more.  Sally  ran  forward  among  the  Indians  and  put 
the  food  into  their  hands.  With  grunts  of  satisfaction 
they  seized  what  she  gave,  and  thrust  it  into  their 
mouths,  squatting  on  the  ground.  Arrowhead  looked 
on  stern  and  immobile,  but  when  at  last  she  and  the 
factor's  wife  sat  down  before  the  braves  with  confidence 
and  an  air  of  friendliness,  he  sat  down  also;  yet,  famished 
as  he  was,  he  would  not  touch  the  food.  At  last  Sally, 
realizing  his  proud  defiance  of  hunger,  offered  him  a 
little  lump  of  pemmican  and  a  biscuit,  and  with  a  grunt 
he  took  it  from  her  hands  and  ate  it.  Then,  at  his 
command,  a  fire  was  lit,  the  pipe  of  peace  was  brought 
out,  and  Sally  and  the  factor's  wife  touched  their  lips 
to  it,  and  passed  it  on. 

So  was  a  new  treaty  of  peace  and  loyalty  made  with 
Arrowhead  and  his  tribe  by  a  woman  without  fear, 
whose  life  had  seemed  not  worth  a  minute's  purchase; 
and,  as  the  sun  went  down,  Arrowhead  and  his  men 
went  forth  to  make  war  upon  Yellow  Hawk  beside  the 

143 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Nettigon  River.     In  this  wise  had  her  influence  spread 
in  the  land. 

Standing  now  with  the  child  in  his  arms  and  his  wife 
looking  at  him  with  a  shining  moisture  of  the  eyes,  Jim 
laughed  outright.  There  came  upon  him  a  sudden 
sense  of  power,  of  aggressive  force — the  will  to  do. 
Sally  understood,  and  came  and  laughingly  grasped  his 
arm. 

"Oh,  Jim,"  she  said,  playfully,  "you  are  getting 
muscles  like  steel.  You  hadn't  these  when  you  were 
colonel  of  the  Kentucky  Carbineers!" 

"I  guess  I  need  them  now,"  he  said,  smiling,  and 
with  the  child  still  in  his  arms  drew  her  to  a  window 
looking  northward.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  noth- 
ing but  snow,  like  a  blanket  spread  over  the  land. 
Here  and  there  in  the  wide  expanse  a  tree  silhouetted 
against  the  sky,  a  tracery  of  eccentric  beauty,  and  off  in 
the  far  distance  a  solitary  horseman  riding  toward  the 
post — riding  hard. 

"  It  was  root,  hog,  or  die  with  me,  Sally,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  and  I  rooted.  ...  I  wonder — that  fellow  on  the 
horse — I  have  a  feeling  about  him.  See,  he's  been  riding 
hard  and  long — you  can  tell  by  the  way  the  horse  drops 
his  legs.  He  sags  a  bit  himself.  .  .  .  But  isn't  it  beauti- 
ful, all  that  out  there — the  real  quintessence  of  life." 

The  air  was  full  of  delicate  particles  of  frost  on  which 
the  sun  sparkled,  and  though  there  was  neither  bird  nor 
insect,  nor  animal,  nor  stir  of  leaf,  nor  swaying  branch 
or  waving  grass,  life  palpitated  in  the  air,  energy  sang 
its  song  in  the  footstep  that  crunched  the  frosty  ground, 
that  broke  the  crusted  snow;  it  was  in  the  delicate 
wind  that  stirred  the  flag  by  the  barracks  away  to  the 
left;  hope  smiled  in  the  wide  prospect  over  which  the 
thrilling,  bracing  air  trembled.     Sally  had  chosen  right. 

"  You  had  a  big  thought  when  you  brought  me  here, 

144 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

guinea-girl,"  he  added,  presently.  "We  are  going  to 
win  out  here" — he  set  the  child  down — "you  and  I  and 
this  lucky  sixpence."  He  took  up  his  short  fur  coat. 
"Yes,  we'll  win,  honey."  Then,  with  a  brooding  look 
in  his  face,  he  added: 

" '  The  end  comes  as  came  the  beginning, 

And  shadows  fail  into  the  past; 
And  the  goal,  is  it  not  worth  the  winning, 

If  it  brings  us  but  home  at  the  last? 
While  far  through  the  pain  of  waste  places 

We  tread,  'tis  a  blossoming  rod 
That  drives  us  to  grace  from  disgraces, 

From  the  fens  to  the  gardens  of  God!'" 

He  paused  reflectively.  "  It's  strange  that  this  life 
up  here  makes  you  feel  that  you  must  live  a  bigger  life 
still,  that  this  is  only  the  wide  porch  to  the  great  labor- 
house — it  makes  you  want  to  do  things.  Well,  we've 
got  to  win  the  stake  first,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh. 

"The  stake  is  a  big  one,  Jim — bigger  than  you  think." 

"  You  and  her  and  me — me  that  was  in  the  gutter." 

"What  is  the  gutter,  dadsie?"  asked  Nancy. 

"  The  gutter — the  gutter  is  where  the  dish-water  goes, 
midget,"  he  answered,  with  a  dry  laugh. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  you'd  like  to  be  in  the  gutter," 
Nancy  said,  solemnly. 

"You  have  to  get  used  to  it  first,  miss,"  answered 
Jirn. 

Suddenly  Sally  laid  both  hands  on  Jim's  shoulders 
and  looked  him  in  the  eyes.  "  You  must  win  the  stake, 
Jim.     Think— now!" 

She  laid  a  hand  on  the  head  of  the  child.  He  did 
not  know  that  he  was  playing  for  a  certain  five  millions, 
perhaps  fifty  millions,  of  dollars.  She  had  never  told 
him  of  his  father's  offer.  He  was  fighting  only  for 
salvation,   for  those  he  loved,   for  freedom.     As  they 

145 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

stood  there,  the  conviction  had  come  upon  her  that 
they  had  come  to  the  last  battle-field,  that  this  journey 
which  Jim  now  must  take  would  decide  all,  would  give 
them  perfect  peace  or  lifelong  pain.  The  shadow  of 
battle  was  over  them,  but  he  had  no  foreboding,  no 
premonition ;  he  had  never  been  so  full  of  spirits  and  life. 

To  her  adjuration  Jim  replied  by  burying  his  face  in 
her  golden  hair,  and  he  whispered:  "Say,  I've  done 
near  four  years,  my  girl.  I  think  I'm  all  right  now — 
I  think.  This  last  six  months,  it's  been  easy — pretty 
fairly  easy." 

"  Four  months  more,  only  four  months  more — God  be 
good  to  us!"  she  said,  with  a  little  gasp. 

If  he  held  out  for  four  months  more,  the  first  great 
stage  in  their  life-journey  would  be  passed,  the  stake  won. 

"I  saw  a  woman  get  an  awful  fall  once,"  Jim  said, 
suddenly.  "  Her  bones  were  broken  in  twelve  places, 
and  there  wasn't  a  spot  on  her  body  without  injury. 
They  set  and  fixed  up  every  broken  bone  except  one.  It 
was  split  down.  They  didn't  dare  perform  the  opera- 
tion; she  couldn't  stand  it.  There  was  a  limit  to  pain, 
and  she  had  reached  the  boundary.  Two  years  went 
by,  and  she  got  better  every  way,  but  inside  her  leg 
those  broken  pieces  of  bone  were  rubbing  against  each 
other.  She  tried  to  avoid  the  inevitable  operation,  but 
Nature  said,  '  You  must  do  it,  or  die  in  the  end.'  She 
yielded.  Then  came  the  long  preparations  for  the  opera- 
tion. Her  heart  shrank,  her  mind  got  tortured.  She'd 
suffered  too  much.  She  pulled  herself  together,  and 
said,  '  I  must  conquer  this  shrinking  body  of  mine  by 
my  will.  How  shall  I  do  it?'  Something  within  her 
said,  'Think  and  do  for  others.  Forget  yourself.'  And 
so,  as  they  got  her  ready  for  her  torture,  she  visited 
hospitals,  agonized  cripple  as  she  was,  and  smiled  and 
talked  to  the  sick  and  broken,  telling  them  of  her  own 
miseries  endured  and  dangers  faced,  of  the  boundary 

146 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

of  human  suffering  almost  passed;  and  so  she  got  her 
courage  for  her  own  trial.  And  she  came  out  all  right 
in  the  end.  Well,  that's  the  way  I've  felt  sometimes. 
But  I'm  ready  for  my  operation  now  whenever  it  comes, 
and  it's  coming,  I  know.  Let  it  come  when  it  must." 
He  smiled. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  presently  Sewcll 
entered.  "  The  Commissioner  wishes  you  to  come  over, 
sir,"  he  said. 

"  I  was  just  coming,  Sewcll.    Is  all  ready  for  the  start  ?" 

"  Everything's  ready,  sir,  but  there's  to  be  a  change  of 
orders.  Something's  happened — a  bad  job  up  in  the 
Cree  country,  I  think." 

A  few  minutes  later  Jim  was  in  the  Commissioner's 
ofifice.  The  murder  of  a  Hudson  Bay  Company's  man 
had  been  committed  in  the  Cree  country.  The  stranger 
whom  Jim  and  Sally  had  seen  riding  across  the  plains 
had  brought  the  news  for  thirty  miles,  word  of  the 
murder  having  been  carried  from  point  to  point.  The 
Commissioner  was  uncertain  what  to  do,  as  the  Crees 
were  restless  through  want  of  food  and  the  absence  of 
game,  and  a  force  sent  to  capture  Arrowhead,  the  chief 
who  had  committed  the  murder,  might  precipitate 
trouble.  Jim  solved  the  problem  by  offering  to  go 
alone  and  bring  the  chief  into  the  post.  It  was  two 
hundred  miles  to  the  Cree  encampment,  and  the  journey 
had  its  double  dangers. 

Another  officer  was  sent  on  the  expedition  for  which 
Jim  had  been  preparing,  and  he  made  ready  to  go  upon 
his  lonely  duty.  His  wife  did  not  know  till  three  days 
after  he  had  gone  what  the  nature  of  his  mission  was. 

IV 

Jim  made  his  journey  in  good  weather  with  his 
faithful  dogs  alone,  and  came  into  the  camp  of  the  Crees 

"  147 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

armed  with  only  a  revolver.  If  he  had  gone  with  ten 
men,  there  would  have  been  an  instant  melee,  in  which 
he  would  have  lost  his  life.  This  is  what  the  chief  had 
expected,  had  prepared  for;  but  Jim  was  more  formid- 
able alone,  with  power  far  behind  him  which  could  come 
with  force  and  destroy  the  tribe,  if  resistance  was  offered, 
than  with  fifty  men.  His  tongue  had  a  gift  of  terse 
and  picturesque  speech,  powerful  with  a  people  who  had 
the  gift  of  imagination.  With  five  hundred  men  ready 
to  turn  him  loose  in  the  plains  without  dogs  or  food,  he 
carried  himself  with  a  watchful  coolness  and  complacent 
determination  which  got  home  to  their  minds  with 
great  force. 

For  hours  the  struggle  for  the  murderer  went  on,  a 
struggle  of  mind  over  inferior  mind  and  matter. 

Arrowhead  was  a  chief  whose  will  had  never  been 
crossed  by  his  own  people,  and  to  master  that  will  by  a 
superior  will,  to  hold  back  the  destructive  force  which, 
to  the  ignorant  minds  of  the  braves,  was  only  a  natural 
force  of  defence,  meant  a  task  needing  more  than  au- 
thority behind  it.  For  the  very  fear  of  that  authority 
put  in  motion  was  an  incentive  to  present  resistance — 
to  stave  off  the  day  of  trouble.  The  faces  that  sur- 
rounded Jim  were  thin  with  hunger,  and  the  murder  that 
had  been  committed  by  the  chief  had,  as  its  origin,  the 
foolish  replies  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company's  man  to 
their  demand  for  supplies.  Arrowhead  had  killed  him 
with  his  own  hand. 

But  Jim  Templeton  was  of  a  different  calibre.  Al- 
though he  had  not  been  told  it,  he  realized  that,  in- 
directly, hunger  was  the  cause  of  the  crime  and  might 
easily  become  the  cause  of  another;  for  their  tempers 
were  sharper  even  than  their  appetites.  Upon  this  he 
played ;  upon  this  he  made  an  exhortation  to  the  chief. 
He  assumed  that  Arrowhead  had  become  violent  be- 
cause of  his  people's  straits,   that  Arrowhead's  heart 

148 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

yearned  for  his  people  and  would  make  sacrifice  for 
them.  Now,  if  Arrowhead  came  quietly,  he  would  see 
that  supplies  of  food  were  sent  at  once,  and  that  arrange- 
ments were  made  to  meet  the  misery  of  their  situation. 
Therefore,  if  Arrowhead  came  freely,  he  would  have  so 
much  in  his  favor  before  his  judges;  if  he  would  not 
come  quietly,  then  he  must  be  brought  by  force;  and 
if  they  raised  a  hand  to  prevent  it,  then  destruction 
would  fall  upon  all — all  save  the  women  and  children. 
The  law  must  be  obeyed.  They  might  try  to  resist  the 
law  through  him,  but,  if  violence  was  shown,  he  would 
first  kill  Arrowhead,  and  then  destruction  would  descend 
like  a  wind  out  of  the  north,  darkness  would  swallow 
them,  and  their  bones  would  cover  the  plains. 

As  he  ended  his  words  a  young  brave  sprang  forward 
with  hatchet  raised.  Jim's  revolver  slipped  down  into 
his  palm  from  his  sleeve,  and  a  bullet  caught  the  brave 
in  the  lifted  arm.     The  hatchet  dropped  to  the  ground. 

Then  Jim's  eyes  blazed,  and  he  turned  a  look  of 
anger  on  the  chief,  his  face  pale  and  hard,  as  he  said: 
"The  stream  rises  above  the  banks;  come  with  me, 
chief,  or  all  will  drown.  I  am  master,  and  I  speak.  Ye 
are  hungry  because  ye  are  idle.  Ye  call  the  world 
yours,  yet  ye  will  not  stoop  to  gather  from  the  earth 
the  fruits  of  the  earth.  Ye  sit  idle  in  the  summer,  and 
women  and  children  die  round  you  when  winter  comes. 
Because  the  game  is  gone,  ye  say'.  Must  the  world 
stand  still  because  a  handful  of  Crees  need  a  hunting- 
ground?  Must  the  makers  of  cities  and  the  wonders 
of  the  earth,  who  fill  the  land  with  plenty — must  they 
stand  far  off,  because  the  Crees  and  their  chief  would 
wander  over  a  million  acres,  for  each  man  a  million, 
when  by  a  hundred — ay,  by  ten — each  white  man  would 
live  in  plenty  and  make  the  land  rejoice?  See!  Here 
is  the  truth.  When  the  Great  Spirit  draws  the  game 
away  so  that  the  hunting  is  poor,  ye  sit  down  and  fill 

149 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

your  hearts  with  murder,  and  in  the  blackness  of  your 
thoughts  kill  my  brother.  Idle  and  shiftless  and  evil 
ye  are,  while  the  earth  cries  out  to  give  you  of  its  plenty, 
a  great  harvest  from  a  little  seed,  if  ye  will  but  dig 
and  plant,  and  plough  and  sow  and  reap,  and  lend 
your  backs  to  toil.  Now  hear  and  heed.  The  end  is 
come.  For  this  once  ye  shall  be  fed — by  the  blood  of 
my  heart,  ye  shall  be  fed!  And  another  year  ye  shall 
labor,  and  get  the  fruits  of  your  labor,  and  not  stand 
waiting,  as  it  were,  till  a  fish  shall  pass  the  spear  or  a 
stag  water  at  your  door,  that  ye  may  slay  and  eat. 
The  end  is  come,  ye  idle  men.  O  chief,  hearken!  One 
of  your  braves  would  have  slain  me,  even  as  you  slew 
my  brother — he  one,  and  you  a  thousand.  Speak  to 
your  people  as  I  have  spoken,  and  then  come  and  an- 
swer for  the  deed  done  by  your  hand.  And  this  I  say 
that  right  shall  be  done  between  men  and  men.    Speak." 

Jim  had  made  his  great  effort,  and  not  without  avail. 
Arrowhead  rose  slowly,  the  cloud  gone  out  of  his  face, 
and  spoke  to  his  people,  bidding  them  wait  in  peace 
until  food  came,  and  appointing  his  son  chief  in  his 
stead  until  his  return. 

"The  white  man  speaks  truth,  and  I  will  go,"  he 
said.  "I  shall  return,"  he  continued,  "if  it  be  written 
so  upon  the  leaves  of  the  Tree  of  Life;  and  if  it  be  not 
so  written,  I  shall  fade  like  a  mist,  and  the  tepees  will 
know  me  not  again.  The  days  of  my  youth  are  spent, 
and  my  step  no  longer  springs  from  the  ground.  I 
shuffle  among  the  grass  and  the  fallen  leaves,  and  my 
eyes  scarce  know  the  stag  from  the  doe.  The  white 
man  is  master — if  he  wills  it  we  shall  die;  if  he  wills  it 
we  shall  live.  And  this  was  ever  so.  It  is  in  the  tale 
of  our  people.  One  tribe  ruled,  and  the  others  were 
their  slaves.  If  it  is  written  on  the  leaves  of  the  Tree 
of  Life  that  the  white  man  rule  us  forever,  then  it  shall 
be  so.     I  have  spoken.     Now,  behold,  I  go." 

150 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

.  Jim  had  conquered,  and  together  they  sped  away 
with  the  dogs  through  the  sweet-smelling  spruce  woods 
where  every  branch  carried  a  cloth  of  white,  and  the 
only  sound  heard  was  the  swish  of  a  blanket  of  snow 
as  it  fell  to  the  ground  from  the  wide  webs  of  green,  or 
a  twig  snapped  under  the  load  it  bore.  Peace  brooded 
in  the  silent  and  comforting  forest,  and  Jim  and  Arrow- 
head, the  Indian  ever  ahead,  swung  along,  mile  after 
mile,  on  their  snow-shoes,  emerging  at  last  upon  the 
wide,  white  prairie. 

A  hundred  miles  of  sun  and  fair  weather,  sleeping  at 
night  in  the  open  in  a  trench  dug  in  the  snow,  no  fear 
in  the  thoughts  of  Jim,  nor  evil  in  the  heart  of  the 
heathen  man.  There  had  been  moments  of  watchful- 
ness, of  uncertainty,  on  Jim's  part,  the  first  few  hours  of 
the  first  night  after  they  left  the  Cree  reservation;  but 
the  conviction  speedily  came  to  Jim  that  all  was  well; 
for  the  chief  slept  soundly  from  the  moment  he  lay 
down  in  his  blankets  between  the  dogs.  Then  Jim 
went  to  sleep  as  in  his  own  bed,  and,  waking,  found 
Arrowhead  lighting  a  fire  from  a  little  load  of  sticks 
from  the  sledges.  And  between  murderer  and  captor 
there  sprang  up  the  companionship  of  the  open  road 
which  brings  all  men  to  a  certain  land  of  faith  and 
understanding,  unless  they  are  perverted  and  vile. 
There  was  no  vileness  in  Arrowhead.  There  were  no 
handcuffs  on  his  hands,  no  sign  of  captivity;  they  two 
ate  out  of  the  same  dish,  drank  from  the  same  basin, 
broke  from  the  same  bread.  The  crime  of  Arrowhead, 
the  galiows  waiting  for  him,  seemed  very  far  away. 
They  were  only  two  silent  travellers,  sharing  the  same 
hardship,  helping  to  give  material  comfort  to  each 
other — in  the  inevitable  democracy  of  those  far  places, 
where  small  things  are  not  great  nor  great  things  small ; 
where  into  men's  hearts  comes  the  knowledge  of  the 

151 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

things  that  matter;  where,  from  the  wide,  starry  sky, 
from  the  august  loneliness,  and  the  soul  of  the  life 
which  has  brooded  there  for  untold  generations,  God 
teaches  the  values  of  this  world  and  the  next. 

One  hundred  miles  of  sun  and  fair  weather,  and  then 
fifty  miles  of  bitter,  aching  cold,  with  nights  of  peril 
from  the  increasing  chill,  so  that  Jim  dared  not  sleep 
lest  he  should  never  wake  again,  but  die  benumbed  and 
exhausted!  Yet  Arrowhead  slept  through  all.  Day 
after  day  so,  and  then  ten  miles  of  storm  such  as  come 
only  to  the  vast  barrens  of  the  northlands;  and  woe  to 
the  traveller  upon  whom  the  icy  wind  and  the  blinding 
snow  descended!  Woe  came  upon  Jim  Templeton  and 
Arrowhead,  the  heathen. 

In  the  awful  struggle  between  man  and  nature  that 
followed,  the  captive  became  the  leader.  The  craft  of 
the  plains,  the  inherent  instinct,  the  feeling  which  was 
more  than  eyesight  became  the  only  hope.  One  whole 
day  to  cover  ten  miles — an  endless  path  of  agony,  in 
which  Jim  went  down  again  and  again,  but  came  up 
blinded  by  snow  and  drift,  and  cut  as  with  lashes  by 
the  angry  wind.  At  the  end  of  the  ten  miles  was  a 
Hudson  Bay  Company's  post  and  safety;  and  through 
ten  hours  had  the  two  struggled  toward  it,  going  off  at 
tangents,  circling  on  their  own  tracks;  but  the  Indian, 
by  an  instinct  as  sure  as  the  needle  to  the  pole,  getting 
the  direction  to  the  post  again,  in  the  moments  of 
direst  peril  and  uncertainty.  To  Jim  the  world  became 
a  sea  of  maddening  forces  which  buffeted  him;  a  whirl- 
pool of  fire  in  which  his  brain  was  tortured,  his  mind 
was  shrivelled  up ;  a  vast  army  rending  itself,  each  man 
against  the  other.  It  was  a  purgatory  of  music,  broken 
by  discords;  and  then  at  last — how  sweet  it  all  was, 
after  the  eternity  of  misery! — "Church  bells  and  voices 
low,"  and  Sally  singing  to  him,  Nancy's  voice  calling! 
Then,  nothing  but  sleep — sleep,  a  sinking  down  millions 

152 


THE  STAKE  AND  THE  PLUMB-LINE 

of  miles  in  an  ether  of  drowsiness  which  thrilled  him; 
and  after — no  more. 

None  who  has  suffered  up  to  the  limit  of  what  the 
human  body  and  soul  may  bear  can  remember  the 
history  of  those  distracted  moments  when  the  struggle 
became  one  between  the  forces  in  nature  and  the  forces 
in  man,  between  agonized  body  and  smothered  mind, 
yet  with  the  divine  intelligence  of  the  created  being 
directing,  even  though  subconsciously,  the  fight. 

How  Arrowhead  found  the  post  in  the  mad  storm  he 
cotdd  never  have  told.  Yet  he  found  it,  with  Jim  un- 
conscious on  the  sledge  and  with  limbs  frozen,  all  the 
dogs  gone  but  two,  the  leathers  over  the  Indian's  shoul- 
ders as  he  fell  against  the  gate  of  the  post  with  a  shrill 
cry  that  roused  the  factor  and  his  people  within,  to- 
gether with  Sergeant  Sewell,  who  had  been  sent  out 
from  headquarters  to  await  Jim's  arrival  there.  It  was 
Sewell's  hand  which  first  felt  Jim's  heart  and  pulse, 
and  found  that  there  was  still  life  left,  even  before  it 
could  be  done  by  the  doctor  from  headquarters,  who 
had  come  to  visit  a  sick  man  at  the  post. 

For  hours  they  worked  with  snow  upon  the  frozen 
limbs  to  bring  back  life  and  consciousness.  Conscious- 
ness came  at  last  with  half  delirium,  half  understanding, 
as,  emerging  from  the  passing  sleep  of  anaesthetics,  the 
eye  sees  things  and  dimly  registers  them  before  the 
brain  has  set  them  in  any  relation  to  life  or  compre- 
hension. 

But  Jim.  was  roused  at  last,  and  the  doctor  presently 
held  to  his  lips  a  glass  of  brandy.  Then  from  infinite  dis- 
tance Jim's  understanding  returned;  the  mind  emerged, 
but  not  wholly,  from  the  chaos  in  which  it  was  trav- 
elling.    His  eyes  stood  out  in  eagerness. 

"Brandy!    brandy!"  he  said,  hungrily. 

With  an  oath  Sewell  snatched  the  glass  from  the 
doctor's  hand,  put  it  on  the  table,  then  stooped  to  Jim's 

153 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

ear  and  said,  hoarsely:  "  Remember — Nancy.     For  God's 
sake,  sir,  don't  drink!" 

Jim's  head  fell  back,  the  fierce  light  went  out  of  his 
eyes,  the  face  became  grayer  and  sharper.  "  Sally — 
Nancy — Nancy,"  he  whispered,  and  his  fingers  clutched 
vaguely  at  the  quilt. 

"  He  must  have  brandy  or  he  will  die.  The  system 
is  pumped  out.  He  must  be  revived,"  said  the  doctor. 
He  reached  again  for  the  glass  of  spirits. 

Jim  understood  now.  He  was  on  the  borderland 
between  life  and  death,  his  feet  were  at  the  brink. 
"No — not — brandy,  no!"  he  moaned.  "Sally — Sally, 
kiss  me,"  he  said,  faintly,  from  the  middle  world  in 
which  he  was. 

"Quick,  the  broth!"  said  Sewell  to  the  factor,  who 
had  been  preparing  it.  "  Quick,  while  there's  a  chance." 
He  stooped  and  called  into  Jim's  ear:  "For  the  love  of 
God,  wake  up,  sir.  They're  coming — they're  both  com- 
ing—Nancy's coming.  They'll  soon  be  here."  What 
matter  that  he  lied? — a  life  was  at  stake. 

Jim's  eyes  opened  again.  The  doctor  was  standing 
with  the  brandy  in  his  hand.  Half  madly  Jim  reached 
out.  "I  must  live  until  they  come,"  he  cried;  "the 
brandy — ah,  give  it!  Give  it — ah,  no,  no,  I  must  not," 
he  added,  gasping,  his  lips  trembling,  his  hands  shaking. 

Sewell  held  the  broth  to  his  lips.  He  drank  a  little, 
yet  his  face  became  grayer  and  grayer;  a  bluish  tinge 
spread  about  his  mouth. 

"Have  you  nothing  else,  sir?"  asked  Sewell,  in  de- 
spair. 

The  doctor  put  down  the  brandy,  went  quickly  to 
his  medicine-case,  dropped  into  a  glass  some  liquid  from 
a  phial,  came  over  again,  and  poured  a  little  between 
the  lips;  then  a  little  more,  as  Jim's  eyes  opened  again; 
and  at  last  every  drop  in  the  glass  trickled  down  the 
sinewy  throat. 

154 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

Presently  as  they  watched  him  the  doctor  said :  "  It 
will  not  do.  He  must  have  brandy.  It  has  life — food 
—in  it." 

Jim  understood  the  words.  He  knew  that  if  he 
drank  the  brandy  the  chances  against  his  future  were 
terrible.  He  had  made  his  vow,  and  he  must  keep  it. 
Yet  the  thirst  was  on  him;  his  enemy  had  him  by  the 
throat  again,  was  dragging  him  down.  Though  his 
body  was  so  cold,  his  throat  was  on  fire.  But  in  the 
extremity  of  his  strength  his  mind  fought  on — fought 
on,  growing  weaker  every  moment.  He  was  having  his 
last  fight.  They  watched  him  with  an  aching  anxiety, 
and  there  was  anger  in  the  doctor's  face.  He  had  no 
patience  with  these  forces  arrayed  against  him. 

At  last  the  doctor  whispered  to  Sewell,  "It's  no  use; 
he  must  have  the  brandy,  or  he  can't  live  an  hour." 

Sewell  weakened;  the  tears  fell  down  his  rough,  hard 
cheeks.     "It'll  ruin  him — it's  ruin  or  death." 

"  Trust  a  little  more  in  God  and  in  the  man's  strength. 
Let  us  give  him  the  chance.  Force  it  down  his  throat — 
he's  not  responsible,"  said  the  physician,  to  whom  saving 
life  was  more  than  all  else. 

Suddenly  there  appeared  at  the  bedside  Arrowhead, 
gaunt  and  weak,  his  face  swollen,  the  skin  of  it  broken 
by  the  whips  of  storm. 

"  He  is  my  brother,"  he  said,  and,  stooping,  laid  both 
hands,  which  he  had  held  before  the  fire  for  a  long 
time,  on  Jim's  heart.  "Take  his  feet,  his  hands,  his 
legs,  and  his  head  in  your  hands,"  he  said  to  them  all. 
"  Life  is  in  us;   we  will  give  him  life." 

He  knelt  down  and  kept  both  hands  on  Jim's  heart, 
while  the  others,  even  the  doctor,  awed  by  his  act,  did  as 
they  were  bidden.  "  Shut  your  eyes.  Let  your  life  go 
into  him.  Think  of  him,  and  him  alone.  Now!"  said 
Arrowhead,  in  a  strange  voice. 

He  murmured,  and  continued  murmuring,  his  body 

155 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

drawing  closer  and  closer  to  Jim's  body,  while  in  the 
deep  silence,  broken  only  by  the  chanting  of  his  low, 
monotonous  voice,  the  others  pressed  Jim's  hands  and 
head  and  feet  and  legs — six  men  under  the  command 
of  a  heathen  murderer. 

The  minutes  passed.  The  color  came  back  to  Jim's 
face,  the  skin  of  his  hands  filled  up,  they  ceased  twitch- 
ing, his  pulse  got  stronger,  his  eyes  opened  with  a  new 
light  in  them. 

"I'm  living,  anyhow,"  he  said,  at  last,  with  a  faint 
smile.     "I'm  hungry — broth,  please." 

The  fight  was  won,  and  Arrowhead,  the  pagan  mur- 
derer, drew  over  to  the  fire  and  crouched  down  beside 
it,  his  back  to  the  bed,  impassive  and  still.  They 
brought  him  a  bowl  of  broth  and  bread,  which  he  drank 
slowly,  and  placed  the  empty  bowl  between  his  knees. 
He  sat  there  through  the  night,  though  they  tried  to 
make  him  lie  down. 

As  the  light  came  in  at  the  windows,  Sewell  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder  and  said,  "He  is  sleeping  now." 

"  I  hear  my  brother  breathe,"  answered  Arrowhead. 
"He  will  live." 

All  night  he  had  listened,  and  had  heard  Jim's  breath 
as  only  a  man  who  has  lived  in  waste  places  can  hear. 
"  He  will  live.  What  I  take  with  one  hand  I  give  with 
the  other." 

He  had  taken  the  life  of  the  factor;  he  had  given  Jim 
his  life.  And  when  he  was  tried  three  months  later  for 
murder,  some  one  else  said  this  for  him,  and  the  hearts 
of  all,  judge  and  jury,  were  so  moved  they  knew  not 
what  to  do. 

But  Arrowhead  was  never  sentenced,  for,  at  the  end 
of  the  first  day's  trial,  he  lay  down  to  sleep  and  never 
waked  again.  He  was  found  the  next  morning  still  and 
cold,  and  there  was  clasped  in  his  hands  a  little  doll 
which  Nancy  had  given  him  on  one  of  her  many  visits 

156 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

to  the  prison  during  her  father's  long  illness.  They 
found  a  piece  of  paper  in  his  belt  with  these  words  in 
the  Cree  language:  "With  my  hands  on  his  heart  at 
the  post  J  gave  him  the  life  that  was  in  me,  saving  but 
a  little  until  now.  Arrowhead,  the  chief,  goes  to  find 
life  again  by  the  well  at  the  root  of  the  tree.     Howl" 


On  the  evening  of  the  day  that  Arrowhead  made  his 
journey  to  "the  well  at  the  root  of  the  tree"  a  stranger 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Captain  Templeton's  cottage; 
then,  without  awaiting  admittance,  entered. 

Jim  was  sitting  with  Nancy  on  his  knee,  her  head 
against  his  shoulder,  Sally  at  his  side,  her  face  alight 
with  some  inner  joy.  Before  the  knock  came  to  the  door 
Jim  had  just  said,  "  Why  do  your  eyes  shine  so,  Sally  ? 
What's  in  your  mind?"  She  had  been  about  to  answer, 
to  say  to  him  what  had  been  swelling  her  heart  with 
pride,  though  she  had  not  meant  to  tell  him  what  he 
had  forgotten — not  till  midnight.  But  the  figure  that 
entered  the  room,  a  big  man  with  deep-set  eyes,  a  man 
of  power  who  had  carried  everything  before  him  in  the 
battle  of  life,  answered  for  her. 

"You  have  won  the  stake,  Jim,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse 
voice.  "  You  and  she  have  won  the  stake,  and  I've 
brought  it — brought  it." 

Before  they  could  speak  he  placed  in  Sally's  hands 
bonds  for  five  million  dollars. 

"Jim — Jim,  my  son!"  he  burst  out.  Then,  suddenly, 
he  sank  into  a  chair  and,  putting  his  head  in  his  hands, 
sobbed  aloud. 

"  My  God,  but  I'm  proud  of  you — speak  to  me,  Jim. 
You've  broken  me  up."  He  was  ashamed  of  his  tears, 
but  he  could  not  wipe  them  away. 

157 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"Father,  dear  old  man!"  said  Jim,  and  put  his  hands 

on  the  broad  shoulders. 

Sally  knelt  down  beside  him,  took  both  the  great 
hands  from  the  tear-stained  face  and  laid  them  against 
her  cheek.     But  presently  she  put  Nancy  on  his  knees. 

"I  don't  like  you  to  cry,"  the  child  said,  softly;  "but 
to-day  I  cried  too,  'cause  my  Indian  man  is  dead." 

The  old  man  could  not  speak,  but  he  put  his  cheek 
down  to  hers.  After  a  minute,  "  Oh,  but  she's  worth 
ten  times  that!"  he  said,  as  Sally  came  close  to  him 
with  the  bundle  he  had  thrust  into  her  hands. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Jim. 

"  It's  five  million  dollars — for  Nancy,"  she  said. 

"  Five— million— what—  ?" 

"The  stake,  Jim,"  said  Sally.  "If  you  did  not  drink 
for  four  years— never  touched  a  drop — we  were  to  have 
five  million  dollars." 

"  You  never  told  him,  then — you  never  told  him 
that?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"I  wanted  him  to  win  without  it,"  she  said.  "If 
he  won,  he  would  be  the  stronger;  if  he  lost,  it  would 
not  be  so  hard  for  him  to  bear." 

The  old  man  drew  her  down  and  kissed  her  cheek. 
He  chuckled,  though  the  tears  were  still  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  are  a  wonder — the  tenth  wonder  of  the  world!" 
he  blurted. 

Jim  stood  staring  at  the  bundle  in  Nancy's  hands. 
"Five  millions — five  million  dollars!"  he  kept  saying  to 
himself. 

"  I  said  Nancy's  worth  ten  times  that,  Jim."  The  old 
man  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it.  "  But  it  was  a 
damned  near  thing,  I  tell  you,"  he  added.  "They  tried 
to  break  me  and  my  railways  and  my  bank.  I  had  to 
fight  the  combination,  and  there  was  one  day  when  I 
hadn't  that  five  million  dollars  there,  nor  five.  Jim, 
they  tried  to  break  the  old  man!     And  if  they'd  broken 

158 


THE    STAKE    AND    THE    PLUMB-LINE 

me,  they'd  have  made  me  out  a  scoundrel  to  her — to 
this  wife  of  yours  who  risked  everything  for  both  of  us — 
for  both  of  us,  Jim;  for  she'd  given  up  the  world  to  save 
you,  and^shc  was  playing  like  a  soul  in  hell  for  heaven. 
If  they'd  broken  me,  I'd  never  have  lifted  my  head 
again.  When  things  were  at  their  worst  I  played  to 
save  that  five  millions — her  stake  and  mine;  I  played 
for  that.  I  fought  for  it  as  a  man  fights  his  way  out 
of  a  burning  house.  And  I  won — I  won.  And  it  was 
by  fighting  for  that  five  millions  I  saved  fifty — fifty 
millions,  son.  They  didn't  break  the  old  man,  Jim. 
They  didn't  break  him — not  much." 

"There  are  giants  in  the  world  still,"  said  Jim,  his 
own  eyes  full.  He  knew  now  his  father  and  himself, 
and  he  knew  the  meaning  of  all  the  bitter  and  mis- 
spent life  of  the  old  days.  He  and  his  father  were 
on  a  level  of  understanding  at  last. 

"Are  you  a  giant?"  asked  Nancy,  peering  up  into  her 
grandfather's  eyes. 

The  old  man  laughed,  then  sighed.  "  Perhaps  I  was 
once,  more  or  less,  my  dear,"  saying  to  her  what  he 
meant  for  the  other  two  —  "perhaps  I  was;  but  I've 
finished.     I'm  through.     I've  had  my  last  fight." 

He  looked  at  his  son.  "  I  pass  the  game  on  to  you, 
Jim.  You  can  do  it.  I  knew  you  could  do  it  as  the 
reports  came  in  this  year.  I've  had  a  detective  up  here 
for  four  years.  I  had  to  do  it.  It  was  the  devil  in 
me.  You've  got  to  carry  on  the  game,  Jim;  I'm  done. 
I'll  stay  home  and  potter  about.  I  want  to  go  back  to 
Kentucky,  and  build  up  the  old  place,  and  take  care  of 
it  a  bit — ^your  mother  always  loved  it.  I'd  like  to  have 
it  as  it  was  when  she  was  there  long  ago.  But  I'll  be 
ready  to  help  you  when  I'm  wanted,  understand." 

"  You  want  me  to  run  things — your  colossal  schemes  ? 
You  think—?" 

"  I  don't  think.     I'm  old  enough  to  know." 

159 


WHEN   THE   SWALLOWS   HOMEWARD    FLY 

The  arrogant  Sun  had  stalked  away  into  the  even- 
ing, trailing  behind  him  banners  of  gold  and  crim- 
son, and  a  swift  twilight  was  streaming  over  the  land. 
As  the  sun  passed,  the  eyes  of  two  men  on  a  high  hill 
followed  it,  and  the  look  of  one  was  like  a  light  in  a 
window  to  a  lost  traveller.  It  had  in  it  the  sense  of 
home  and  the  tale  of  a  joiurney  done.  Such  a  journey 
this  man  had  made  as  few  have  ever  attempted  and 
fewer  accomplished.  To  the  farthermost  regions  of 
snow  and  ice,  where  the  shoulder  of  a  continent  juts 
out  into  the  northwestern  arctic  seas,  he  had  travelled 
on  foot  and  alone,  save  for  his  dogs,  and  for  Indian 
guides  who  now  and  then  shepherded  him  from  point 
to  point.  The  vast  ice-hummocks  had  been  his  housing; 
pemmican,  the  raw  flesh  of  fish,  and  even  the  fat  and 
oil  of  seals  had  been  his  food.  Ever  and  ever  through 
long  months  the  everlasting  white  glitter  of  the  snow 
and  ice,  ever  and  ever  the  cold  stars,  the  cloudless  sky, 
the  moon  at  full,  or  swimg  like  a  white  sickle  in  the  sky 
to  warn  him  that  his  life  must  be  mown  like  grass.  At 
night  to  sleep  in  a  bag  of  fur  and  wool,  by  day  the 
steely  wind,  or  the  air  shaking  with  a  filmy  powder  of 
frost;  while  the  inimitably  distant  sun  made  the  tiny 
flakes  sparkle  like  silver — a  poiidre  day,  when  the  face 
and  hands  are  most  like  to  be  frozen,  and  all  so  still  and 
white  and  passionless,  yet  aching  with  energy.  Hun- 
dreds upon  hundreds  of  miles  that  endless  trail  went 

1 60 


WHEN  THE  SWALLOWS  HOMEWARD  FLY 

winding  to  the  farthest  Northwest.  No  human  being 
had  ever  trod  its  lengths  before,  though  Indians  or  a 
stray  Hudson's  Bay  Company  man  had  made  journeys 
over  part  of  it  during  the  years  that  have  passed  since 
Prince  Rupert  sent  his  adventurers  to  dot  that  northern 
land  with  posts  and  forts  and  trace  fine  arteries  of  civ- 
ilization through  the  wastes. 

Where  this  man  had  gone  none  other  had  been  of  white 
men  from  the  western  lands,  though  from  across  the 
wide  Pacific,  from  the  Eastern  world,  adventurers  and 
exiles  had  once  visited  what  is  now  known  as  the  Yukon 
Valley.  So  this  man,  browsing  in  the  library  of  his 
grandfather,  an  Eastern  scholar,  had  come  to  know; 
and  for  love  of  adventure,  and  because  of  the  tale  of  a 
valley  of  gold  and  treasure  to  be  had,  and  because  he 
had  been  ruined  by  bad  investments,  he  had  made  a 
journey  like  none  ever  essayed  before.  And  on  his 
way  up  to  those  regions,  where  the  veil  before  the  face 
of  God  is  very  thin  and  fine,  and  men's  hearts  glow 
within  them,  where  there  was  no  oasis  save  the  un- 
guessed  deposit  of  a  great  human  dream  that  his  soul 
could  feel,  the  face  of  a  girl  had  haunted  him.  Her 
voice — so  sweet  a  voice  that  it  rang  like  muffled  silver 
in  his  ears,  till,  in  the  everlasting  theatre  of  the  pole, 
the  stars  seemed  to  repeat  it  through  millions  of  echoing 
hills,  growing  softer  and  softer  as  the  frost  hushed  it 
to  his  ears — had  said  to  him  late  and  early,  "  You  must 
come  back  with  the  swallows."  Then  she  had  sung  a 
song  which  had  been  like  a  fire  in  his  heart,  not  alone 
because  of  the  words  of  it,  but  because  of  the  soul  in  her 
voice,  and  it  had  lain  like  a  coverlet  on  his  heart  to 
keep  it  warm: 

"Adieu!     The  sun  goes  awearily  do^^-n, 
The  mist  creeps  up  o'er  the  sleepy  town, 
The  white  sail  bends  to  the  shuddering  mere. 
And  the  reapers  have  reaped  and  the  night  is  here. 

i6i 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"Adieu!     And  the  years  are  a  broken  song, 
The  right  grows  weak  in  the  strife  with  wrong, 
The  lilies  of  love  have  a  crimson  stain, 
And  the  old  days  never  will  come  again. 

"Adieu!     Where  the  mountains  afar  are  dim 
'Neath  the  tremulous  tread  of  the  seraphim, 
Shall  not  our  querulous  hearts  prevail, 
That  have  prayed  for  the  peace  of  the  Holy  Grail? 

"Adieu!     Sometime  shall  the  veil  between 
The  things  that  are  and  that  might  have  been 
Be  folded  back  for  our  eyes  to  see, 
And  the  meaning  of  all  shall  be  clear  to  me." 

It  had  been  but  an  acquaintance  of  five  days  while 
he  fitted  out  for  his  expedition,  but  in  this  brief  time 
it  had  sunk  deep  into  his  mind  that  life  was  now  a  thing 
to  cherish,  and  that  he  must  indeed  come  back;  though 
he  had  left  England  caring  little  if,  in  the  peril  and 
danger  of  his  quest,  he  ever  returned.  He  had  been 
indifferent  to  his  fate  till  he  came  to  the  Valley  of  the 
Saskatchewan,  to  the  town  lying  at  the  foot  of  the 
maple  hill  beside  the  great  northern  stream,  and  saw 
the  girl  whose  life  was  knit  with  the  far  North,  whose 
mother's  heart  was  buried  in  the  great  wastes  where 
Sir  John  Franklin's  expedition  was  lost;  for  her  hus- 
band had  been  one  of  the  ill-fated  if  not  unhappy  band 
of  lovers  of  that  civilization  for  which  they  had  risked 
all  and  lost  all  save  immortality.  Hither  the  two  had 
come  after  he  had  been  cast  away  on  the  icy  plains,  and, 
as  the  settlement  had  crept  north,  had  gone  north  with 
it,  always  on  the  outer  edge  of  house  and  field,  ever 
stepping  northward.  Here,  with  small  income  but 
high  hearts  and  quiet  souls,  they  had  lived  and  labored. 

And  when  this  new-comer  from  the  old  land  set  his 
face  northward  to  an  unknown  destination,  the  two 
women  had  prayed  as  the  mother  did  in  the  old  days 

162 


WHEN  THE  SWALLOWS  HOMEWARD  FLY 

when  the  daughter  was  but  a  babe  at  her  knee,  and  it 
was  not  yet  certain  that  Franklin  and  his  men  had  been 
cast  away  forever.  Something  in  him — his  great  height, 
his  strength  of  body,  his  clear,  meditative  eyes,  his  brave 
laugh  —  reminded  her  of  him,  her  husband,  who,  like 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  had  said  that  it  mattered  little 
where  men  did  their  duty,  since  God  was  always  near 
to  take  or  leave  as  it  was  His  will.  When  Bickersteth 
went,  it  was  as  though  one  they  had  known  all  their 
lives  had  passed;  and  the  woman  knew  also  that  a  new 
thought  had  been  sown  in  her  daughter's  mind,  a  new 
door  opened  in  her  heart. 

And  he  had  returned.  He  was  now  looking  down 
into  the  valley  where  the  village  lay.  Far,  far  over, 
two  days'  march  away,  he  could  see  the  cluster  of 
houses,  and  the  glow  of  the  sun  on  the  tin  spire  of 
the  little  mission  church  where  he  had  heard  the  girl 
and  her  mother  sing,  till  the  hearts  of  all  were  swept 
by  feeling  and  ravished  by  the  desire  for  "  the  peace 
of  the  Holy  Grail."  The  village  was,  in  truth,  but  a 
day's  march  away  from  him,  but  he  was  not  alone, 
and  the  journey  could  not  be  hastened.  Beside  him, 
his  eyes  also  upon  the  sunset  and  the  village,  was  a 
man  in  a  costume  half-trapper,  half-Indian,  with  bushy 
gray  beard  and  massive  frame,  and  a  distant,  sorrow- 
ful look,  like  that  of  one  whose  soul  was  tuned  to  past 
suffering.  As  he  sat,  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  his 
elbow  resting  on  a  stump  of  pine — the  token  of  a  pro- 
gressive civilization — his  chin  upon  his  hand,  he  looked 
like  the  figure  of  Moses  made  immortal  by  Michael 
Angelo.  But  his  strength  was  not  like  that  of  the  man 
beside  him,  who  was  thirty  years  younger.  When  he 
walked,  it  was  as  one  who  had  no  destination,  who  had 
no  haven  toward  which  to  travel,  who  journeyed  as  one 
to  whom  the  world  is  a  wilderness,  and  one  tent  or  one 
hut  is  the  same  as  another,  and  none  is  home. 

la  163 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Like  two  ships  meeting  hull  to  hull  on  the  wide  seas, 
where  a  few  miles  of  water  will  hide  them  from  each 
other,  whose  ports  are  thousands  of  miles  apart,  whose 
courses  are  not  the  same,  they  two  had  met,  the  elder 
man,  sick  and  worn  and  near  to  death,  in  the  poor 
hospitality  of  an  Indian's  tepee.  John  Bickersteth  had 
nursed  the  old  man  back  to  strength,  and  had  brought 
him  southward  with  him  —  a  silent  companion,  who 
spoke  in  monosyllables,  who  had  no  conversation  at  all 
of  the  past  and  little  of  thQ  present,  but  who  was  a 
woodsman  and  an  arctic  traveller  of  the  most  expert 
kind,  who  knew  by  instinct  where  the  best  places  for 
shelter  and  for  sleeping  might  be  found,  who  never  com- 
plained, and  was  wonderful  with  the  dogs.  Close  aS 
their  association  was.  Bickersteth  had  felt  concerning 
the  other  that  his  real  self  was  in  some  other  sphere  or 
place  toward  which  his  mind  was  always  turning,  as 
though  to  bring  it  back. 

Again  and  again  had  Bickersteth  tried  to  get  the 
old  man  to  speak  about  the  past,  but  he  had  been  met 
by  a  dumb  sort  of  look,  a  straining  to  understand. 
Once  or  twice  the  old  man  had  taken  his  hands  in  both 
of  his  own  and  gazed  with  painful  eagerness  into  his 
face,  as  though  trying  to  remember  or  to  comprehend 
something  that  eluded  him.  Upon  these  occasions  the 
old  man's  eyes  dropped  tears  in  an  apathetic  quiet, 
which  tortured  Bickersteth  beyond  bearing.  Just  such 
a  look  he  had  seen  in  the  eyes  of  a  favorite  dog  when  he 
had  performed  an  operation  on  it  to  save  its  life — a 
reproachful,   non-comprehending,  loving  gaze. 

Bickersteth  understood  a  little  of  the  Chinook  lan- 
guage, which  is  familiar  to  most  Indian  tribes,  and  he 
had  learned  that  the  Indians  knew  nothing  exact  con- 
cerning the  old  man ;  but  rumors  had  passed  from  tribe 
to  tribe  that  this  white  man  had  lived  forever  in  the 
farthest  North  among  the   arctic  tribes,   and  that  he 

164 


WHEN  THE  SWALLOWS  HOMEWARD  FLY 

passed  from  people  to  people,  disappearing  into  the 
untenanted  wilderness,  but  reappearing  again  among 
stranger  tribes,  never  resting,  and  as  one  always  seek- 
ing what  he  could  not  find. 

One  thing  had  helped  this  old  man  in  all  his  travels 
and  sojourning.  He  had,  as  it  seemed  to  the  native 
people,  a  gift  of  the  hands;  for  when  they  were  sick 
a  few  moments'  manipulation  of  his  huge,  quiet  fingers 
vanquished  pain.  A  few  herbs  he  gave  in  tincture,  and 
these  also  were  praised;  but  it  was  a  legend  that  when 
he  was  persuaded  to  lay  on  his  hands  and  close  his 
eyes,  and  with  his  fingers  to  "  search  for  the  pain  and 
find  it,  and  kill  it,"  he  always  prevailed.  They  believed 
that,  though  his  body  w^as  on  earth,  his  soul  was  with 
Manitou,  and  that  it  was  his  soul  which  came  into  him 
again,  and  gave  the  Great  Spirit's  healing  to  the  fingers. 
This  had  been  the  man's  safety  through  how  many 
years — or  how  many  generations — they  did  not  know; 
for  legends  regarding  the  pilgrim  had  grown  and  were 
fostered  by  the  medicine-men,  who,  by  giving  him  great 
age  and  supernatural  power,  could,  with  more  self- 
respect,  apologize  for  their  own  incapacity. 

So  the  years — how  many  it  was  impossible  to  tell, 
since  he  did  not  know  or  would  not  say — had  gone 
on;  and  now,  after  ceaseless  wandering,  his  face  was 
turned  toward  that  civilization  out  of  which  he  had 
come  so  long  ago — or  was  it  so  long  ago  ? — one  genera- 
tion, or  two,  or  ten?  It  seemed  to  Bickersteth  at  times 
as  though  it  were  ten,  so  strange,  so  unworldly  was  his 
companion.  At  first  he  thought  that  the  man  remem- 
bered more  than  he  would  appear  to  acknowledge,  bui 
he  found  that  after  a  day  or  two  everything  that  hap- 
pened as  they  journeyed  was  also  forgotten. 

It  was  only  visible  things,  or  sounds,  that  appeared 
to  open  the  doors  of  memory  of  the  most  recent  hap- 
penings.    These    happenings,    if    not    varied,    were    of 

165 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

critical  moment,  since,  passing  down  from  the  land  of 
unchanging  ice  and  snow,  they  had  come  into  March 
and  April  storms  and  the  perils  of  the  rapids  and  the 
swollen  floods  of  May.  Now,  in  June,  two  years  and  a 
month  since  Bickersteth  had  gone  into  the  wilds,  they 
looked  down  upon  the  goal  of  one  at  least — of  the  younger 
man  who  had  triumphed  in  his  quest  up  in  these  wilds 
abandoned  centuries  ago. 

With  the  joyous  thought  in  his  heart  that  he  had  dis- 
covered anew  one  of  the  greatest  gold-fields  of  the  world, 
that  a  journey  unparalleled  had  been  accompHshed,  he 
turned  toward  his  ancient  companion,  and  a  feeling  of 
pity  and  human  love  enlarged  within  him.  He,  John 
Bickersteth,  was  going  into  a  world  again  where — as  he 
believed— a  happy  fate  awaited  him;  but  what  of  this 
old  man?  He  had  brought  him  out  of  the  wilds,  out 
of  the  unknown — was  he  only  taking  him  into  the  un- 
known again  ?  Were  there  friends,  any  friends  anywhere 
in  the  world,  waiting  for  him?  He  called  himself  by  no 
name,  he  said  he  had  no  name.  Whence  came  he  ?  Of 
whom  ?  Whither  was  he  wending  now  ?  Bickersteth  had 
thought  of  the  problem  often,  and  he  had  no  answer  for 
it  save  that  he  must  be  taken  care  of,  if  not  by  others, 
then  by  himself;  for  the  old  man  had  saved  him  from 
drowning;  had  also  saved  him  from  an  awful  death  on 
a  March  day  when  he  fell  into  a  great  hole  and  was 
knocked  insensible  in  the  drifting  snow;  had  saved  him 
from  brooding  on  himself — the  beginning  of  madness — 
by  compelling  him  to  think  for  another.  And  some- 
times, as  he  looked  at  the  old  man,  his  imagination 
had  caught  the  spirit  of  the  legend  of  the  Indians,  and 
he  had  cried  out,  "O  soul,  come  back  and  give  him 
memory — give  him  back  his  memory,  Manitou  the 
mighty!" 

Looking  on  the  old  man  now,  an  impulse  seized  him. 
"Dear  old  man,"  he  said,  speaking  as  one  speaks  to  a 

i66 


^^i'-wt'^K^''^^-  <:  ■-di:^^^^^M^'  fm^:'.'  l-( 


S:iiii 


■^i^^fM:J''£M^;^^^^^^ 


'flteK^^v     " •!  1,'"'   .  '     --  -; 


THE     OLD      MAN      SHOOK      HIS      HEAD.     THOUGH      NOT     WITH 
UNDERSTANDING 


WHEN  THE  SWALLOWS  HOMEWARD  FLY 

child  that  cannot  understand,  "you  shall  never  want 
while  I  have  a  penny,  or  have  head  or  hands  to  work. 
But  is  there  no  one  that  you  care  for  or  that  cares  for 
you,  that  you  remember,  or  that  remembers  you?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  though  not  with  under- 
standing, and  he  laid  a  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder, 
and  whispered: 

"Once  it  was  always  snow,  but  now  it  is  green,  the 
land.  I  have  seen  it — I  have  seen  it  once."  His  shaggy 
eyebrows  gathered  over,  his  eyes  searched,  searched  the 
face  of  John  Bickersteth.  "Once,  so  long  ago — I  can- 
not think,"  he  added,  helplessly. 

"Dear  old  man,"  Bickersteth  said,  gently,  knowing 
he  would  not  wholly  comprehend,  "  I  am  going  to  ask  her 
— Alice — to  marry  me,  and  if  she  does,  she  will  help 
look  after  you,  too.  Neither  of  us  would  have  been 
here  without  the  other,  dear  old  man,  and  we  shall  not 
be  separated.  Whoever  you  are,  you  are  a  gentleman, 
and  you  might  have  been  my  father  or  hers — or  hers." 

He  stopped  suddenly.  A  thought  had  flashed  through 
his  mind,  a  thought  which  stunned  him,  which  passed 
like  some  powerful  current  through  his  veins,  shocked 
him,  then  gave  him  a  palpitating  life.  It  was  a  wild 
thought,  but  yet  why  not  ? — why  not  ?  There  was  the 
chance,  the  faint,  far-off  chance.  He  caught  the  old 
man  by  the  shoulders  and  looked  him  in  the  eyes, 
scanned  his  features,  pushed  back  the  hair  from  the 
rugged  forehead. 

"Dear  old  man,"  he  said,  his  voice  shaking,  "do  you 
know  what  I'm  thinking?  I'm  thinking  that  you  may 
be  of  those  who  went  out  to  the  Arctic  Sea  with  Sir  John 
Franklin  —  with  Sir  John  Franklin,  you  understand. 
Did  you  know  Sir  John  Franklin  ? — is  it  true,  dear  old 
boy  ? — is  it  true  ?  Are  you  one  that  has  lived  to  tell  the 
tale  ?  Did  you  know  Sir  John  Franklin  ? — is  it — tell  me, 
is  it  true?" 

167 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

He  let  go  the  old  man's  shoulders,  for  over  the  face 
of  the  other  there  had  passed  a  change.  It  was  strained 
and  tense.  The  hands  were  outstretched,  the  eyes  were 
staring  straight  into  the  west  and  the  coming  night. 

"It  is — it  is— that's  it!"  cried  Bickersteth.  "That's 
it — oh,  love  o'  God,  that's  it!  Sir  John  Franklin— Sir 
John  Franklin,  and  all  the  brave  lads  that  died  up  there! 
You  remember  the  ship — the  Arctic  Sea — the  ice-fields, 
and  Franklin — you  remember  him?  Dear  old  man,  say 
you  remember  Franklin?" 

The  thing  had  seized  him.  Conviction  was  upon  him, 
and  he  watched  the  other's  anguished  face  with  anguish 
and  excitement  in  his  own.  But — but  it  might  be,  it 
might  be  her  father — the  eyes,  the  forehead  are  like 
hers;  the  hands,  the  long  hands,  the  pointed  fingers. 
"Dear  old  man,  did  you  have  a  wife  and  child,  and 
were  they  both  called  Alice — do  you  remember  ?  Frank- 
lin!— Alice!     Do  you  remember?" 

The  old  man  got  slowly  to  his  feet,  his  arms  out- 
stretched, the  look  in  his  face  changing,  understanding, 
struggling  for  its  place,  memory  fighting  for  its  own, 
the  soul  contending  for  its  mastery. 

"Franklin — Alice — the  snow,"  he  said,  confusedly, 
and  sank  down. 

"God  have  mercy!"  cried  Bickersteth,  as  he  caught 
the  swaying  body  and  laid  it  upon  the  ground.  "  He 
was  there— almost." 

He  settled  the  old  man  against  the  great  pine  stump 
and  chafed  his  hands.  "Man,  dear  man,  if  you  belong 
to  her — if  you  do,  can't  you  see  what  it  will  mean  to 
me?  She  can't  say  no  to  me  then.  But  if  it's  true, 
you'll  belong  to  England  and  to  all  the  world,  too,  and 
you'll  have  fame  everlasting.  I'll  have  gold  for  her  and 
for  you,  and  for  your  Alice,  too,  dear  old  man.  Wake 
up  now  and  remember  if  you  are  Dyke  Allingham,  who 
went  with  Franklin  to  the  silent  seas  of  the  Pole.     If  it's 

168 


WHEN  THE  SWALLOWS  HOMEWARD  FLY 

you,  really  you,  what  wonder  you  lost  your  memory! 
You  saw  them  all  die,  Franklin  and  all,  die  there  in  the 
snow,  with  all  the  white  world  round  them.  If  you  were 
there,  what  a  travel  you  have  had,  what  strange  things 
you  have  seen!  Where  the  world  is  loneliest,  God  lives 
most.  If  you  get  close  to  the  heart  of  things,  it's  no 
marvel  you  forgot  what  you  were,  or  where  you  came 
from;  because  it  didn't  matter;  you  knew  that  you  were 
only  one  of  thousands  of  millions  who  have  come  and 
gone,  that  make  up  the  soul  of  things,  that  make  the 
pulses  of  the  universe  beat.  That's  it,  dear  old  man. 
The  universe  would  die,  if  it  weren't  for  the  souls  that 
leave  this  world  and  fill  it  with  life.  Wake  up!  Wake 
up,  Allingham,  and  tell  us  where  you've  been,  and  what 
you've  seen." 

He  did  not  labor  in  vain.  Slowly  consciousness  came 
back,  and  the  gray  eyes  opened  wide,  the  lips  smiled 
faintly  under  the  bushy  beard ;  but  Bickersteth  saw  that 
the  look  in  the  face  was  much  the  same  as  it  had  been 
before.  The  struggle  had  been  too  great,  the  fight  for 
the  other  lost  self  had  exhausted  him,  mind  and  body, 
and  only  a  deep  obliquity  and  a  great  weariness  filled 
the  countenance.  He  had  come  back  to  the  verge,  he 
had  almost  again  discovered  himself;  but  the  opening 
door  had  shut  fast  suddenly,  and  he  was  back  again  in 
the  night,  the  incompanionable  night  of  forgetfulness. 

Bickersteth  saw  that  the  travail  and  strife  had  drained 
life  and  energy,  and  that  he  must  not  press  the  mind 
and  vitality  of  this  exile  of  time  and  the  unknown  too 
far.  He  felt  that  when  the  next  test  came  the  old  man 
would  either  break  completely,  and  sink  down  into  an- 
other and  everlasting  forgetfulness,  or  tear  away  forever 
the  veil  between  himself  and  his  past,  and  emerge  into 
a  long-lost  life.  His  strength  must  be  shepherded,  and 
he  must  be  kept  quiet  and  undisturbed  until  they  came 
to  the  town  yonder  in  the  valley,  over  which  the  night 

169 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

was  slowly  settling  down.  There  two  women  waited, 
the  two  Alices,  from  both  of  whom  had  gone  lovers  into 
the  North.  The  daughter  was  living  over  again  in  her 
young  love  the  pangs  of  suspense  through  which  her 
mother  had  passed.  Two  years  since  Bickersteth  had 
gone,  and  not  a  sign! 

Yet,  if  the  girl  had  looked  from  her  bedroom  window, 
this  Friday  night,  she  would  have  seen  on  the  far  hill  a 
sign;  for  there  burned  a  fire  beside  which  sat  two  trav- 
ellers who  had  come  from  the  uttermost  limits  of  snow. 
But  as  the  fire  burned — a  beacon  to  her  heart  if  she  had 
but  known  it — she  went  to  her  bed,  the  words  of  a  song 
she  had  sung  at  choir-practice  with  tears  in  her  voice 
and  in  her  heart  ringing  in  her  ears.  A  concert  was  to  be 
held  after  the  service  on  the  coming  Sunday  night,  at 
which  there  was  to  be  a  collection  for  funds  to  build 
another  mission-house  a  hundred  miles  farther  north, 
and  she  had  been  practising  music  she  was  to  sing.  Her 
mother  had  been  an  amateur  singer  of  great  power,  and 
she  was  renewing  her  mother's  gift  in  a  voice  behind 
which  lay  a  hidden  sorrow.  As  she  cried  herself  to  sleep 
the  words  of  the  song  which  had  moved  her  kept  ringing 
in  her  ears  and  echoing  in  her  heart: 

"When  the  swallows  homeward  fly. 
And  the  roses'  bloom  is  o'er — " 

But  her  mother,  looking  out  into  the  night,  saw  on 
the  far  hill  the  fire,  burning  like  a  star,  where  she  had 
never  seen  a  fire  set  before,  and  a  hope  shot  into  her 
heart  for  her  daughter — a  hope  that  had  flamed  up  and 
died  down  so  often  during  the  past  year.  Yet  she  had 
fanned  with  heartening  words  every  such  glimmer  of 
hope  when  it  came,  and  now  she  went  to  bed  saying, 
"Perhaps  he  will  come  to-morrow."  In  her  mind,  too, 
rang  the  words  of  the  song  which  had  ravished  her  ears 
that  night,  the  song  she  had  sung  the  night  before  her 

170 


WHEN  THE   SWALLOWS  HOMEWARD  FLY 

own  husband,  Dyke  Allingham,  had  gone  with  Franklin 
to  the  Polar  seas: 

"  When  the  swallows  homeward  fly — " 

As  she  and  her  daughter  entered  the  little  church  on 
the  Sunday  evening,  two  men  came  over  the  prairie 
slowly  toward  the  town,  and  both  raised  their  heads  to 
the  sound  of  the  church-bell  calling  to  prayer.  In  the 
eyes  of  the  younger  man  there  was  a  look  which  has 
come  to  many  in  this  world  returning  from  hard  enter- 
prise and  great  dangers,  to  the  familiar  streets,  the 
friendly  faces  of  men  of  their  kin  and  clan — to  the  lights 
of  home. 

The  face  of  the  older  man,  however,  had  another  look. 
It  was  such  a  look  as  is  seldom  seen  in  the  faces  of  men, 
for  it  showed  the  struggle  of  a  soul  to  regain  its  identity. 
The  words  which  the  old  man  had  uttered  in  response 
to  Bickersteth's  appeal  before  he  fainted  away — "Frank- 
lin— Alice — the  snow  " — had  showed  that  he  was  on  the 
verge;  the  bells  of  the  church  pealing  in  the  summer 
air  brought  him  near  it  once  again.  How  many  years 
had  gone  since  he  had  heard  church-bells?  Bickersteth, 
gazing  at  him  in  eager  scrutiny,  wondered  if,  after  all, 
he  might  be  mistaken  about  him.  But  no,  this  man 
had  never  been  born  and  bred  in  the  Far  North,  His  was 
a  type  which  belonged  to  the  civilization  from  which  he 
himself  had  come.  There  would  soon  be  the  test  of  it 
all.  Yet  he  shuddered,  too,  to  think  what  might  hap- 
pen if  it  was  all  true,  and  discovery  or  reunion  should 
shake  to  the  centre  the  very  life  of  the  two  long-parted 
ones. 

He  saw  the  look  of  perplexed  pain  and  joy  at  once  in 
the  face  of  the  old  man,  but  he  said  nothing,  and  he  was 
almost  glad  when  the  bell  stopped.  The  old  man  turned 
to  him, 

171 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"What  is  it?"  he  said.  "I  remember—"  but  he 
stopped  suddenly,  shaking  his  head. 

An  hour  later,  cleared  of  the  dust  of  travel,  the  two 
walked  slowly  toward  the  church  from  the  little  tavern 
where  they  were  lodged.  The  service  was  now  over, 
but  the  concert  had  begun.  The  church  was  full,  and 
there  were  people  in  the  porch;  but  these  made  way  for 
the  two  strangers;  and,  as  Bickersteth  was  recognized 
by  two  or  three  present,  place  was  found  for  them. 
Inside,  the  old  man  stared  round  him  in  a  confused  and 
troubled  way,  but  his  motions  were  quiet  and  abstracted, 
and  he  looked  like  some  old  viking,  his  workaday  life 
done,  come  to  pray  ere  he  went  hence  forever.  They 
had  entered  in  a  pause  in  the  concert,  but  now  two 
ladies  came  forward  to  the  chancel  steps,  and  one  with 
her  hands  clasped  before  her,  began  to  sing: 

"  When  the  swallows  homeward  fly, 
And  the  roses'  bloom  is  o'er, 
And  the  nightingale's  sweet  song 
In  the  woods  is  heard  no  more — " 

It  was  Alice — Alice  the  daughter — and  presently  the 
mother,  the  other  Alice,  joined  in  the  refrain.  At  sight 
of  them  Bickersteth's  eyes  had  filled,  not  with  tears,  but 
with  a  cloud  of  feeling,  so  that  he  went  blind.  There 
she  was,  the  girl  he  loved.  Her  voice  was  ringing  in  his 
ears.  In  his  own  joy  for  one  instant  he  had  forgotten 
the  old  man  beside  him  and  the  great  test  that  was  now 
upon  him.  He  turned  quickly,  however,  as  the  old  man 
got  to  his  feet.  For  an  instant  the  lost  exile  of  the 
North  stood  as  though  transfixed.  The  blood  slowly 
drained  from  his  face,  and  in  his  eyes  was  an  agony  of 
struggle  and  desire.  For  a  moment  an  awful  confusion 
had  the  mastery,  and  then  suddenly  a  clear  light  broke 
into  his  eyes,  his  face  flushed  healthily  and  shone,  his 
arms  went  up,  and  there  rang  in  his  ears  the  words: 

172 


WHEN  THE  SWALLOWS  HOMEWARD  FLY 

"Then  I  think,  with  bitter  pain, 
Shall  we  ever  meet  again 
When  the  swallows  homeward  fly?" 

"Alice! — Alice!"  he  called,  and  tottered  forward  up 
the  aisle,  followed  by  John  Bickersteth. 

"Alice,  I  have  come  back!"  he  cried  again. 


GEORGE'S   WIFE 

"She's  come,  and  she  can  go  back.  No  one  asked 
her,  no  one  wants  her,  and  she's  got  no  rights  here. 
She  thinks  she'll  come  it  over  me,  but  she'll  get  nothing, 
and  there's  no  place  for  her  here." 

The  old,  gray-bearded  man,  gnarled  and  angular,  with 
overhanging  brows  and  harsh  face,  made  this  little 
speech  of  malice  and  unfriendliness,  looking  out  on  the 
snow-covered  prairie  through  the  window.  Far  in  the 
distance  were  a  sleigh  and  horses  like  a  spot  in  the 
snow,  growing  larger  from  minute  to  minute. 

It  was  a  day  of  days.  Overhead  the  sun  was  pouring 
out  a  flood  of  light  and  warmth,  and,  though  it  was  bitter- 
ly cold,  life  was  beating  hard  in  the  bosom  of  the  West. 
Men  walked  lightly,  breathed  quickly,  and  their  eyes 
were  bright  with  the  brightness  of  vitality  and  content. 
Even  the  old  man  at  the  window  of  this  lonely  house, 
in  a  great,  lonely  stretch  of  country,  with  the  cedar  hills 
behind  it,  had  a  living  force  which  defied  his  seventy- 
odd  years,  though  the  light  in  his  face  was  hard  and  his 
voice  was  harder  still.  Under  the  shelter  of  the  foothills, 
cold  as  the  day  was,  his  cattle  were  feeding  in  the  open, 
scratching  away  the  thin  layer  of  snow  and  browsing 
on  the  tender  grass  underneath.  An  arctic  world  in 
appearance,  it  had  an  abounding  life  which  made  it 
friendly  and  generous — the  harshness  belonged  to  the 
surface.  So,  perhaps,  it  was  with  the  old  man  who 
watched  the  sleigh  in  the  distance  coming  nearer,  but 

174 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

that  in  his  nature  on  which  any  one  could  feed  was  not 
so  easily  reached  as  the  fresh  young  grass  under  the 
protecting  snow. 

"She'll  get  nothing  out  of  me,"  he  repeated,  as  the 
others  in  the  room  behind  him  made  no  remark,  and  his 
eyes  ranged  gloatingly  over  the  cattle  under  the  foot- 
hills and  the  buildings  which  he  had  gathered  together 
to  proclaim  his  substantial  greatness  in  the  West.  "  Not 
a  sou  markee!"  he  added,  clinking  some  coins  in  his 
pocket.     "She's  got  no  rights." 

"  Cassy's  got  as  much  right  here  as  any  of  us,  Abel, 
and  she's  coming  to  say  it,  I  guess." 

The  voice  which  spoke  was  unlike  a  Western  voice. 
It  was  deep  and  full  and  slow,  with  an  organ-like  quality. 
It  was  in  good-keeping  with  the  tall,  spare  body  and 
large,  fine,  rugged  face  of  the  woman  to  whom  it  be- 
longed. She  sat  in  a  rocking-chair,  but  did  not  rock, 
her  fingers  busy  with  the  knitting-needles,  her  feet 
planted  squarely  on  the  home-made  hassock  at  her  feet. 

The  old  man  waited  for  a  minute  in  a  painful  silence, 
then  he  turned  slowly  round,  and,  with  tight-pressed 
lips,  looked  at  the  woman  in  the  rocking-chair.  If  it 
had  been  any  one  else  who  had  "talked  back"  at  him, 
he  would  have  made  quick  work  of  them,  for  he  was 
of  that  class  of  tyrant  who  pride  themselves  on  being 
self-made,  and  have  an  undue  respect  for  their  own 
judgment  and  importance.  But  the  woman  who  had 
ventured  to  challenge  his  cold-blooded  remarks  about 
his  dead  son's  wife,  now  hastening  over  the  snow  to  the 
house  her  husband  had  left  under  a  cloud  eight  years 
before,  had  no  fear  of  him,  and,  maybe,  no  deep  regard 
for  him.  He  respected  her,  as  did  all  who  knew  her — 
a  very  reticent,  thoughtful,  busy  being,  who  had  been 
like  a  well  of  comfort  to  so  many  that  had  drunk  and 
passed  on  out  of  her  Ufe,  out  of  time  and  time's  experi- 
ences.    Seventy-nine   years   saw   her   still    upstanding, 

175 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

strong,  full  of  work,  and  fuller  of  life's  knowledge.  It 
was  she  who  had  sent  the  horses  and  sleigh  for  Cassy 
when  the  old  man,  having  read  the  letter  that  Cassy 
had  written  him,  said  that  she  could  "freeze  at  the 
station"  for  all  of  him.  Aunt  Kate  had  said  nothing 
then,  but,  when  the  time  came,  by  her  orders  the  sleigh 
and  horses  were  at  the  station;  and  the  old  man  had 
made  no  direct  protest,  for  she  was  the  one  person  he 
had  never  dominated  nor  bullied.  If  she  had  only 
talked,  he  would  have  worn  her  down,  for  he  was  fond 
of  talking,  and  it  was  said  by  those  who  were  cynical 
and  incredulous  about  him  that  he  had  gone  to  prayer- 
meetings,  had  been  a  local  preacher,  only  to  hear  his 
own  voice.  Probably,  if  there  had  been  any  politics  in 
the  West  in  his  day,  he  would  have  been  a  politician, 
though  it  would  have  been  too  costly  for  his  taste,  and 
religion  was  very  cheap;  it  enabled  him  to  refuse  to 
join  in  many  forms  of  expenditure,  on  the  ground  that 
he  "did  not  hold  by  such  things." 

In  Aunt  Kate,  the  sister  of  his  wife,  dead  so  many 
years  ago,  he  had  found  a  spirit  stronger  than  his  own. 
He  valued  her;  he  had  said  more  than  once,  to  those 
who  he  thought  would  never  repeat  it  to  her,  that  she 
was  a  "great  woman";  but  self-interest  was  the  main- 
spring of  his  appreciation.  Since  she  had  come  again  to 
his  house— she  had  lived  with  him  once  before  for  two 
years  when  his  wife  was  slowly  dying — it  had  been  a 
different  place.  Housekeeping  had  cost  less  than  before, 
yet  the  cooking  was  better,  the  place  was  beautifully 
clean,  and  discipline  without  rigidity  reigned  every- 
where. One  by  one  the  old  woman's  boys  and  girls 
had  died — four  of  them — and  she  was  now  alone,  with 
not  a  single  grandchild  left  to  cheer  her;  and  the  life 
out  here  with  Abel  Baragar  had  been  unrelieved  by  much 
that  was  heartening  to  a  woman;  for  Black  Andy,  Abel's 
son,  was  not  an  inspiring  figure,  though  even  his  morose- 

176 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

ness  gave  way  under  her  influence.  So  it  was  that  when 
Cassy's  letter  came  her  breast  seemed  to  grow  warmer 
and  swell  with  longing  to  see  the  wife  of  her  nephew, 
who  had  such  a  bad  reputation  in  Abel's  eyes,  and  to 
see  George's  little  boy,  who  was  coming,  too.  After  all, 
whatever  Gassy  was,  she  was  the  mother  of  Abel's  son's 
son ;  and  Aunt  Kate  was  too  old  and  wise  to  be  frightened 
by  tales  told  of  Gassy  or  any  one  else.  So,  having  had 
her  own  way  so  far  regarding  Cassy's  coming,  she  looked 
Abel  calmly  in  the  eyes,  over  the  gold-rimmed  spectacles 
which  were  her  dearest  possession — almost  the  only 
thing  of  value  she  had.  She  was  not  afraid  of  Abel's 
anger,  and  he  knew  it;  but  his  eldest  son.  Black  Andy, 
was  present,  and  he  must  make  a  show  of  being  master 
of  the  situation. 

"Aunt  Kate,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  make  a  fuss  about 
you  sending  the  horses  and  sleigh  for  her,  because 
women  do  fool  things  sometimes.  I  suppose  curiosity 
got  the  best  of  you.  Anyhow,  mebbe  it's  right  Gassy 
should  find  out,  once  for  all,  how  things  stand,  and  that 
they  haven't  altered  since  she  took  George  away,  and 
ruined  his  life,  and  sent  him  to  his  grave.  That's  why 
I  didn't  order  Mick  back  when  I  saw  him  going  out  with 
the  team." 

"Gassy  Mavor,"  interjected  a  third  voice  from  a 
corner  behind  the  great  stove — "Gassy  Mavor,  of  the 
variety-dance-and-song,  and  a  talk  with  the  gallery 
between!" 

Aunt  Kate  looked  over  at  Black  Andy,  and  stopped 
knitting,  for  there  was  that  in  the  tone  of  the  sullen 
ranchman  which  stirred  in  her  a  sudden  anger,  and 
anger  was  a  rare  and  uncomfortable  sensation  to  her. 
A  flush  crept  slowly  over  her  face,  then  it  died  away, 
and  she  said  quietly  to  Black  Andy — for  she  had  ever 
prayed  to  be  master  of  the  demon  of  temper  down  deep 
in  her,  and  she  was  praying  now — 

177 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"She  earnt  her  living  by  singing  and  dancing,  and 
she's  brought  up  George's  boy  by  it,  and  singing  and 
dancing  isn't  a  crime.  David  danced  before  the  Lord, 
I  danced  myself  when  I  was  a  young  girl,  and  before  I 
joined  the  church.  'Twas  about  the  only  pleasure  I 
ever  had;  'bout  the  only  one  I  like  to  remember.  There's 
no  difference  to  me  'twixt  making  your  feet  handy  and 
clever  and  full  of  music,  and  playing  with  your  fingers 
on  the  piano  or  on  a  melodeon  at  a  meeting.  As  for 
singing,  it's  God's  gift;  and  many  a  time  I  wisht  I  had 
it.  I'd  have  sung  the  blackness  out  of  your  face  and 
heart,  Andy."  She  leaned  back  again  and  began  to  knit 
very  fast.  "I'd  like  to  hear  Gassy  sing,  and  see  her 
dance,  too." 

Black  Andy  chuckled  coarsely.  "I  often  heard  her 
sing  and  saw  her  dance  down  at  Lumley's  before  she 
took  George  away  East.  You  wouldn't  have  guessed 
she  had  consumption.  She  knocked  the  boys  over 
down  to  Lumley's.  The  first  night  at  Lumley's  done 
for  George." 

Black  Andy's  face  showed  no  lightening  of  its  gloom 
as  he  spoke,  but  there  was  a  firing-up  of  the  black  eyes, 
and  the  woman  with  the  knitting  felt  that — for  what- 
ever reason — he  was  purposely  irritating  his  father. 

"The  devil  was  in  her  heels  and  in  her  tongue,"  Andy 
continued.  "With  her  big  mouth,  red  hair,  and  little 
eyes  she'd  have  made  anybody  laugh.     I  laughed." 

"You  laughed!"  snapped  out  his  father,  with  a 
sneer. 

Black  Andy's  eyes  half  closed  with  a  morose  look,  then 
he  went  on:  "Yes,  I  laughed  at  Gassy.  While  she  was 
out  here  at  Lumley's  getting  cured,  accordin'  to  the 
doctor's  orders,  things  seemed  to  get  a  move  on  in  the 
West.  But  it  didn't  suit  professing  Christians  like  you, 
dad."  He  jerked  his  head  toward  the  old  man  and  drew 
the  spittoon  near  with  his  feet. 

178 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

"The  West  hasn't  been  any  worse  off  since  she  left," 
snarled   the   old   man. 

"Well,  she  took  George  with  her,"  grimly  retorted 
Black  Andy. 

Abel  Baragar's  heart  had  been  warmer  toward  his 
dead  son  George  than  to  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
George  had  been  as  fair  of  face  and  hair  as  Andrew  was 
dark,  as  cheerful  and  amusing  as  Andrew  was  gloomy 
and  dispiriting,  as  agile  and  dexterous  of  mind  and  body 
as  his  brother  was  slow  and  angular,  as  emotional  and 
warm-hearted  as  the  other  was  phlegmatic  and  sour — 
or  so  it  seemed  to  the  father  and  to  nearly  all  others. 

In  those  old  days  they  had  not  been  very  well  off. 
The  railway  was  not  completed,  and  the  West  had  not 
begun  "to  move."  The  old  man  had  bought  and  sold 
land  and  cattle  and  horses,  always  living  on  a  narrow 
margin  of  safety,  but  in  the  hope  that  one  day  the  choice 
bits  of  land  he  was  shepherding  here  and  there  would 
take  a  leap  up  in  value ;  and  his  judgment  had  been  right. 
His  prosperity  had  all  come  since  George  went  away 
with  Gassy  Mavor.  His  anger  at  George  had  been  the 
more  acute,  because  the  thing  happened  at  a  time  when 
his  affairs  were  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  He  had  won 
through  it,  but  only  by  the  merest  shave,  and  it  had  all 
left  him  with  a  bad  spot  in  his  heart,  in  spite  of  his 
"having  religion."  Whenever  he  remembered  George 
he  instinctively  thought  of  those  black  days  when  a 
Land  and  Cattle  Syndicate  was  crowding  him  over  the 
edge  into  the  chasm  of  failure,  and  came  so  near  doing 
it.  A  few  thousand  dollars  less  to  put  up  here  and 
there,  and  he  would  have  been  ruined;  his  blood  be- 
came hotter  whenever  he  thought  of  it.  He  had  had  to 
fight  the  worst  of  it  through  alone,  for  George,  who  had 
been  useful  as  a  kind  of  buyer  and  seller,  who  was  ever 
all  things  to  all  men,  and  ready  with  quip  and  jest,  and 
not  a  little  uncertain  as  to  truth — to  which  the  old  man 

13  179 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

shut  his  eyes  when  there  was  a  "deal"  on — had,  in  the 
end,  been  of  no  use  at  all,  and  had  seemed  to  go  to 
pieces  just  when  he  was  most  needed.  His  father  had 
put  it  all  down  to  Cassy  Mavor,  who  had  unsettled  things 
since  she  had  come  to  Lumley's,  and,  being  a  man  of  very 
few  ideas,  he  cherished  those  he  had  with  an  exaggerated 
care.  Prosperity  had  not  softened  him;  it  had  given 
him  an  arrogance  unduly  emphasized  by  a  reputation 
for  rigid  virtue  and  honesty.  The  indirect  attack  which 
Andrew  now  made  on  George's  memory  roused  him  to 
anger,  as  much  because  it  seemed  to  challenge  his  own 
judgment  as  cast  a  slight  on  the  name  of  the  boy  whom 
he  had  cast  off,  yet  who  had  a  firmer  hold  on  his  heart 
than  any  human  being  ever  had.  It  had  only  been  pride 
which  had  prevented  him  from  making  it  up  with  George 
before  it  was  too  late;  but,  all  the  more,  he  was  set 
against  the  woman  who  "kicked  up  her  heels  for  a  liv- 
ing"; and,  all  the  more,  he  resented  Black  Andy,  who, 
in  his  own  grim  way,  had  managed  to  remain  a  partner 
with  him  in  their  present  prosperity,  and  had  done  so 
little  for  it. 

"George  helped  to  make  what  you've  got,"  he  said, 
darkly,  now.  "The  West  missed  George.  The  West 
said,  'There  was  a  good  man  ruined  by  a  woman.'  The 
West  'd  never  think  anything  or  anybody  missed  you, 
'cept  yourself.  When  you  went  North,  it  never  missed 
you;  when  you  come  back,  its  jaw  fell.  You  wasn't  fit 
to  black  George's  boots." 

Black  Andy's  mouth  took  on  a  bitter  sort  of  smile, 
and  his  eyes  drooped  furtively  as  he  struck  the  damper 
of  the  stove  heavily  with  his  foot;  then  he  replied, 
slowly: 

"Well,  that's  all  right;  but  if  I  wasn't  fit  to  black  his 
boots,  it  ain't  my  fault.  I  git  my  nature  honest,  as  he 
did.  We  wasn't  any  cross-breeds,  I  s'pose.  We  got 
the  strain  direct,  and  we  was  all  right  on  her  side." 

1 80 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

He  jerked  his  head  toward  Aunt  Kate,  whose  face  was 
growing  pale.     She  interposed  now. 

"Can't  you  leave  the  dead  alone?"  she  asked,  in  a 
voice  ringing  a  little.  "Can't  you  let  them  rest?  Ain't 
it  enough  to  quarrel  about  the  living?  Cassy  '11  be 
here  soon,"  she  added,  peering  out  of  the  window,  "and 
if  I  was  you  I'd  try  and  not  make  her  sorry  she  ever 
married  a  Baragar.  It  ain't  a  feeling  that  'd  make  a 
sick  woman  live  long." 

Aunt  Kate  did  not  strike  often,  but  when  she  did  she 
struck  hard.  Abel  Baragar  staggered  a  little  under  this 
blow,  for,  at  the  moment,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw 
his  dead  wife's  face  looking  at  him  from  the  chair  where 
her  sister  now  sat.  Down  in  his  ill-furnished  heart, 
where  there  had  been  little  which  was  companiona- 
ble, there  was  a  shadowed  corner.  Sophy  Baragar  had 
been  such  a  true-hearted,  brave-souled  woman,  and  he 
had  been  so  impatient  and  exacting  with  her,  till  the 
beautiful  face,  which  had  been  reproduced  in  George, 
had  lost  its  color  and  its  fire,  had  become  careworn  and 
sweet  with  that  sweetness  which  goes  early  out  of  the 
world.  In  all  her  days  the  vanished  wife  had  never 
hinted  at  as  much  as  Aunt  Kate  suggested  now,  and 
Abel  Baragar  shut  his  eyes  against  the  thing  which  he 
was  seeing.     He  was  not  all  hard,  after  all. 

Aunt  Kate  turned  to  Black  Andy  now. 

"Mebbe  Cassy  ain't  for  long,"  she  said.  "  Mebbe 
she's  come  out  for  what  she  came  out  for  before.  It 
seems  to  me  it's  that,  or  she  wouldn't  have  come;  be- 
cause she's  young  yet,  and  she's  fond  of  her  boy,  and 
she'd  not  want  to  bury  herself  alive  out  here  with  us. 
Mebbe  her  lungs  is  bad  again." 

"Then  she's  sure  to  get  another  husband  out  here," 
said  the  old  man,  recovering  himself.  "She  got  one 
before  easy,  on  the  same  ticket."  With  something  of 
malice  he  looked  over  at  Black  Andy. 

i8i 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"If  she  can  sing  and  dance  as  she  done  nine  years 
ago,  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  answered  Black  Andy, 
smoothly.  These  two  men  knew  each  other;  they  had 
said  hard  things  to  each  other  for  many  a  year,  yet  they 
lived  on  together  unshaken  by  each  other's  moods  and 
bitternesses. 

"I'm  getting  old — I'm  seventy-nine  —  and  I  ain't 
for  long,"  urged  Aunt  Kate,  looking  Abel  in  the  eyes. 
"  Some  day  soon  I'll  be  stepping  out  and  away.  Then 
things  '11  go  to  sixes  and  sevens,  as  they  did  after  Sophy 
died.  Some  one  ought  to  be  here  that's  got  a  right  to 
be  here,  not  a  hired  woman." 

Suddenly  the  old  man  raged  out: 

"Her — off  the  stage  to  look  after  this!  Her,  that's 
kicked  up  her  heels  for  a  living!  It's — no,  she's  no 
good.  She's  common.  She's  come,  and  she  can  go. 
I  ain't  having  sweepings  from  the  streets  living  here  as 
if  they  had  rights." 

Aunt  Kate  set  her  lips. 

"Sweepings!  You've  got  to  take  that  back,  Abel. 
It's  not  Christian.     You've  got  to  take  that  back." 

"  He'll  take  it  back  all  right  before  we've  done,  I 
guess,"  remarked  Black  Andy.  "  He'll  take  a  lot 
back." 

"Truth's  truth,  and  I'll  stand  by  it,  and—" 

The  old  man  stopped,  for  there  came  to  them  now, 
clearly,  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells.  They  all  stood  still 
for  an  instant,  silent  and  attentive,  then  Aunt  Kate 
moved  toward  the  door. 

"Cassy'scome,"  she  said.  "Cassy  and  George's  boy  've 
come." 

Another  instant  and  the  door  was  opened  on  the 
beautiful,  white,  sparkling  world,  and  the  low  sleigh, 
with  its  great,  warm,  buffalo  robes,  in  which  the  small 
figures  of  a  woman  and  a  child  were  almost  lost,  stopped 
at  the  door.     Two  whimsical  but  tired  eyes  looked  over 

1S2 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

a  rim  of  fur  at  the  old  woman  in  the  doorway,  then 
Cassy's  voice  rang  out: 

"Hello!  that's  Aunt  Kate,  I  know!  Well,  here  we 
are,  and  here's  my  boy.     Jump,  George!" 

A  moment  later  and  the  gaunt  old  woman  folded  both 
mother  and  son  in  her  arms  and  drew  them  into  the 
room.    The  door  was  shut,  and  they  all  faced  one  another. 

The  old  man  and  Black  Andy  did  not  move,  but 
stood  staring  at  the  trim  figure  in  black,  with  the  plain 
face,  large  mouth,  and  tousled  red  hair,  and  the  dreamy- 
eyed,  handsome  little  boy  beside  her. 

Black  Andy  stood  behind  the  stove,  looking  over  at 
the  new-comers  with  quizzical,  almost  furtive  eyes,  and 
his  father  remained  for  a  moment  with  mouth  open, 
gazing  at  his  dead  son's  wife  and  child,  as  though  not 
quite  comprehending  the  scene.  The  sight  of  the 
boy  had  brought  back,  in  some  strange,  embarrassing 
way,  a  vision  of  thirty  years  before,  when  George  was 
a  little  boy  in  buckskin  pants  and  jacket,  and  was 
beginning  to  ride  the  prairie  with  him.  This  boy  was 
like  George,  yet  not  like  him.  The  face  was  George's, 
the  sensuous,  luxurious  mouth;  but  the  eyes  were  not 
those  of  a  Baragar,  nor  yet  those  of  Aunt  Kate's  fam- 
ily ;  and  they  were  not  wholly  like  the  mother's.  They 
were  full  and  brimming,  while  hers  were  small  and 
whimsical;  yet  they  had  her  quick,  humorous  flashes 
and  her  quaintess. 

"  Have  I  changed  so  much  ?  Have  you  forgotten 
me?"  Gassy  asked,  looking  the  old  man  in  the  eyes. 
"  You  look  as  strong  as  a  bull."  She  held  out  her  hand 
to  him  and  laughed. 

"Hope  I  see  you  well,"  said  Abel  Baragar,  mechan- 
ically, as  he  took  the  hand  and  shook  it  awkwardly. 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  answered  the  nonchalant  little 
woman,  undoing  her  jacket.  "  Shake  hands  with  your 
grandfather,    George.      That's    right  —  don't    talk    too 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

much,"  she  added,  with  a  half-nervous  Httle  laugh,  as 
the  old  man,  with  a  kind  of  fixed  smile,  and  the  child 
shook  hands  in  silence. 

Presently  she  saw  Black  Andy  behind  the  stove. 
"Well,  Andy,  have  you  been  here  ever  since?"  she 
asked,  and,  as  he  came  forward,  she  suddenly  caught 
him  by  both  arms,  stood  on  tiptoe,  and  kissed  him. 
"  Last  time  I  saw  you,  you  were  behind  the  stove  at 
Lumley's.  Nothing's  ever  too  warm  for  you,"  she  added. 
"  You'd  be  shivering  on  the  equator.  You  were  always 
hugging  the  stove  at  Lumley's." 

"Things  were  pretty  warm  there,  too,  Gassy,"  he 
said,  with  a  sidelong  look  at  his  father. 

She  saw  the  look,  her  face  flushed  with  sudden  temper, 
then  her  eyes  fell  on  her  boy,  now  lost  in  the  arms  of 
Aunt  Kate,  and  she  curbed  herself. 

"There  were  plenty  of  things  doing  at  Lumley's  in 
those  days,"  she  said,  brusquely.  "We  were  all  young 
and  fresh  then,"  she  added,  and  then  something  seemed 
to  catch  her  voice,  and  she  coughed  a  little — a  hard, 
dry,  feverish  cough.  "  Are  the  Lumleys  all  right  Are 
they  still  there,  at  the  Forks?"  she  asked,  after  the  lit- 
tle paroxysm  of  coughing. 

"Gleaned  out — all  scattered.  We  own  the  Lumleys' 
place' now,"  replied  Black  Andy,  with  another  sidelong 
glance  at  his  father,  who,  as  he  put  sorne  more  wood 
on  the  fire  and  opened  the  damper  of  the  stove  wider, 
grimly  watched  and  listened. 

"Jim,  and  Lance,  and  Jerry,  and  Abner?"  she  asked, 
almost  abstractedly. 

"Jim's  dead — -shot  by  a  U.  S.  marshal  by  mistake 
for  a  smuggler,"  answered  Black  Andy,  suggestively. 
"Lance  is  up  on  the  Yukon,  busted;  Jerry  is  one  of 
our  hands  on  the  place;  and  Abner  is  in  jail." 

"Abner — in  jail!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  dazed  way. 
"What  did  he  do?     Abner  always  seemed  so  straight." 

184 


'•S 


GEORGE'S     WIFE 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

"Oh,  he  sloped  with  a  thousand  dollars  of  the  railway 
people's  money.  They  caught  him,  and  he  got  seven 
years." 

"He  was  married,  wasn't  he?"  she  asked,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Yes,  to  Phenie  Tyson.  There's  no  children,  so  she's 
all  right,  and  divorce  is  cheap  over  in  the  States,  where 
she  is  now." 

"  Phenie  Tyson  didn't  marry  Abner  because  he  was  a 
saint,  but  because  he  was  a  man,  I  suppose,"  she  replied, 
gravely.     "And  the  old  folks.?" 

"  Both  dead.  What  Abner  done  sent  the  old  man  to 
his  grave.     But  Abner's  mother  died  a  year  before." 

"What  Abner  done  killed  his  father,"  said  Abel 
Baragar,  with  dry  emphasis.  "  Phenie  Tyson  was  ex- 
travagant— wanted  this  and  that,  and  nothin'  was  too 
good  for  her.  Abner  spoilt  his  life  gettin'  her  what  she 
wanted;  and  it  broke  old  Ezra  Lumley's  heart." 

George's  wife  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  her 
eyes  screwed  up,  and  then  she  laughed  softly.  "  My, 
it's  curious  how  some  folks  go  up  and  some  go  down! 
It  must  be  lonely  for  Phenie  waiting  all  these  years  for 
Abner  to  get  free.  ...  I  had  the  happiest  time  in  my  life 
at  Lumley's.  I  was  getting  better  of  my — cold.  While 
I  was  there  I  got  lots  of  strength  stored  up,  to  last 
me  many  a  year  when  I  needed  it;  and,  then,  George 
and  I  were  married  at  Lumley's!" 

Aunt  Kate  came  slowly  over  with  the  boy  and  laid 
a  hand  on  Cassy's  shoulder,  for  there  was  an  under- 
current to  the  conversation  which  boded  no  good. 
The  very  first  words  uttered  had  plunged  Abel  Baragar 
and  his  son's  wife  into  the  midst  of  the  difficulty  which 
she  had  hoped  might,  after  all,  be  avoided. 

"Come,  and  I'll  show  you  your  room,  Cassy,"  she 
said.  "It  faces  south,  and  you'll  get  the  sun  all  day. 
It's  like  a  sun-parlor.     We're  going  to  have  supper  in 

185 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

a  couple  of  hours,  and  you  must  rest  some  first.  Is 
the  house  warm  enough  for  you?" 

The  little,  garish  woman  did  not  reply  directly,  but 
shook  back  her  red  hair  and  caught  her  boy  to  her 
breast  and  kissed  him;  then  she  said,  in  that  staccato 
manner  which  had  given  her  words  on  the  stage  such 
point  and  emphasis:  "Oh,  this  house  is  a'most  too  warm 
for  me,  Aunt  Kate!" 

Then  she  moved  toward  the  door  with  the  grave, 
kindly  old  woman,  her  son's  hand  in  her  own. 

"  You  can  see  the  Lumleys'  place  from  your  window, 
Gassy,"  said  Black  Andy,  grimly.  "  We  got  a  mortgage 
on  it,  and  foreclosed  it,  and  it's  ours  now;  and  Jerry 
Lumley's  stock-riding  for  us.  Anyhow,  he's  better  off 
than  Abner  or  Abner's  wife." 

Gassy  turned  at  the  door  and  faced  him.  Instinc- 
tively she  caught  at  some  latent  conflict  with  old  Abel 
Baragar  in  what  Black  Andy  had  said,  and  her  face 
softened,  for  it  suddenly  flashed  into  her  mind  that  he 
was  not  against  her. 

"I'm  glad  to  be  back  West,"  she  said.  "It  meant  a 
lot  to  me  when  I  was  at  Lumley's."  She  coughed  a 
little  again,  but  turned  to  the  door  with  a  laugh. 

"How  long  have  you  come  to  stay  here — out  West?" 
asked  the  old  man,  furtively. 

"Oh,  there's  plenty  of  time  to  think  of  that!"  she 
answered,  brusquely,  and  she  heard  Black  Andy  laugh 
derisively  as  the  door  closed  behind  her. 

In  a  blaze  of  joy  the  sun  swept  down  behind  the 
southern  hills,  and  the  windows  of  Lumley's  house  at 
the  Forks,  catching  the  oblique  rays,  glittered  and 
shone  like  flaming  silver.  Nothing  of  life  showed,  save 
the  cattle  here  and  there,  creeping  away  to  the  shelter 
of  the  foothills  for  the  night.  The  white,  placid  snow 
made  a  coverlet  as  wide  as  the  vision  of  the  eye,  save 

i86 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

where  spruce  and  cedar  trees  gave  a  touch  of  warmth 
and  refuge  here  and  there.  A  wonderful,  buoyant 
peace  seemed  to  rest  upon  the  wide,  silent  expanse. 
The  birds  of  song  were  gone  South  over  the  'hills,  and 
the  living  wild  things  of  the  prairies  had  stolen  into 
winter-quarters.  Yet,  as  Cassy  Mavor  looked  out  upon 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  scene,  upon  the  splendid 
outspanning  of  the  sun  along  the  hills,  the  deep  plan- 
gent blue  of  the  sky  and  the  thrilling  light,  she  saw  a 
world  in  agony  and  she  heard  the  moans  of  the  afflicted. 
The  sun  shone  bright  on  the  windows  of  Lumley's 
house,  but  she  could  hear  the  crying  of  Abner's  wife, 
and  of  old  Ezra  and  Eliza  Lumley,  when  their  children 
were  stricken  or  shamed;  when  Abel  Baragar  drew 
tighter  and  tighter  the  chains  of  the  mortgage,  which  at 
last  made  them  tenants  in  the  house  once  their  own. 
Only  eight  years  ago,  and  all  this  had  happened.  And 
what  had  not  happened  to  her,  too,  in  those  eight 
years ! 

With  George — reckless,  useless,  loving,  lying  George 
— she  had  left  Lumley's  with  her  sickness  cured,  as  it 
seemed,  after  a  long  year  in  the  West,  and  had  begun 
life  again.  What  sort  of  life  had  it  been  ?  "  Kicking 
up  her  heels  on  the  stage,"  as  Abel  Baragar  had  said; 
but,  somehow,  not  as  it  was  before  she  went  West  to 
give  her  perforated  lung  to  the  healing  air  of  the  plains, 
and  to  live  outdoors  with  the  men — a  man's  life.  Then 
she  had  never  put  a  curb  on  her  tongue,  or  greatly  on 
her  actions,  except  that,  though  a  hundred  men  quar- 
relled openly,  or  in  their  own  minds,  about  her,  no  one 
had  ever  had  any  right  to  quarrel  about  her.  With  a 
tongue  which  made  men  gasp  with  laughter,  with  as 
comic  a  gift  as  ever  woman  had,  and  as  equally  comic  a 
face,  she  had  been  a  good-natured  little  tyrant  in  her 
way.  She  had  given  a  kiss  here  and  there,  and  had  taken 
one,  but  always  there  had  been  before  her  mind  the 

187 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

picture  of  a  care-worn  woman  who  struggled  to  bring  up 
her  three  children  honestly,  and  without  the  help  of 
charity,  and,  with  a  sigh  of  content  and  weariness,  had 
died  as  Cassy  made  her  first  hit  on  the  stage  and  her 
name  became  a  household  word.  And  Cassy,  garish, 
gay,  freckled,  witty,  and  whimsical,  had  never  forgotten 
those  days  when  her  mother  prayed  and  worked  her 
heart  out  to  do  her  duty  by  her  children.  Cassy  Mavor 
had  made  her  following,  had  won  her  place,  was  the 
idol  of  "the  gallery";  and  yet  she  was  "of  the  people," 
as  she  had  always  been,  until  her  first  sickness  came, 
and  she  had  gone  out  to  Lumley's,  out  along  the  foot- 
hills of  the  Rockies. 

What  had  made  her  fall  in  love  with  George  Baragar  ? 
She  could  not  have  told,  if  she  had  been  asked.  He 
was  wayward,  given  to  drink  at  times,  given  also  to 
card-playing  and  racing;  but  he  had  a  way  with  him 
which  few  women  could  resist  and  that  made  men  his 
friends ;  and  he  had  a  sense  of  humor  akin  to  her  own. 
In  any  case,  one  day  she  let  him  catch  her  up  in  his 
arms,  and  there  was  the  end  of  it.  But  no,  not  the  end, 
after  all.  It  was  only  the  beginning  of  real  life  for  her. 
All  that  had  gone  before  seemed  but  playing  on  the 
threshold,  though  it  had  meant  hard,  bitter  hard,  work, 
and  temptation,  and  patience,  and  endurance  of  many 
kinds.  And  now  George  was  gone  forever.  But 
George's  little  boy  lay  there  on  the  bed  in  a  soft  sleep, 
with  all  his  life  before  him. 

She  turned  from  the  warm  window  and  the  buoyant, 
inspiring  scene  to  the  bed.  Stooping  over,  she  kissed 
the  sleeping  boy  with  an  abrupt  eagerness,  and  made  a 
little  awkward,  hungry  gesture  of  love  over  him,  and 
her  face  flushed  hot  with  the  passion  of  motherhood  in 
her. 

"All  I've  got  now,"  she  murmured.  "Nothing  else 
left — nothing  else  at  all." 

i88 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

She  heard  the  door  open  behind  her,  and  she  turned 
round.  Aunt  Kate  was  entering  with  a  bowl  in  her 
hands. 

"I  heard  you  moving  about,  and  I've  brought  you 
something  hot  to  drink,"  she  said. 

"That's  real  good  of  you.  Aunt  Kate,"  was  the  cheer- 
ful reply.  "But  it's  near  supper-time,  and  I  don't 
need  it." 

"It's  boneset  tea — for  your  cold,"  answered  Aunt 
Kate,  gently,  and  put  it  on  the  high  dressing-table  made 
of  a  wooden  box  and  covered  with  muslin.  "For  your 
cold,  Cassy,"  she  repeated. 

The  little  woman  stood  still  a  moment  gazing  at  the 
steaming  bowl,  lines  growing  suddenly  around  her 
mouth,  then  she  looked  at  Aunt  Kate  quizzically. 
"Is  my  cold  bad — so  bad  that  I  need  boneset?"  she 
asked,  in  a  queer,  constrained  voice. 

"It's  comforting,  is  boneset  tea,  even  when  there's  no 
cold,  'specially  when  the  whiskey's  good,  and  the  boneset 
and  camomile  has  steeped  some  days." 

"Have  you  been  steeping  them  some  days?"  Cassy 
asked,  softly,  eagerly. 

Aunt  Kate  nodded,  then  tried  to  explain. 

"It's  always  good  to  be  prepared,  and  I  didn't  know 
but  what  the  cold  you  used  to  have  might  be  come 
back,"  she  said.  "But  I'm  glad  if  it  ain't — if  that 
cough  of  yours  is  only  one  of  the  measly  little  hacks 
people  get  in  the  East,  where  it's  so  damp." 

Cassy  was  at  the  window  again,  looking  out  at  the 
dying  radiance  of  the  sun.  Her  voice  seemed  hollow 
and  strange  and  rather  rough,  as  she  said,  in  reply: 

"It's  a  real  cold,  deep  down,  the  same  as  I  had  nine 
years  ago,  Aunt  Kate;  and  it's  come  to  stay,  I  guess. 
That's  why  I  came  back  West.  But  I  couldn  t  have 
gone  to  Lumley's  again,  even  if  they  were  at  the  Forks 
now,  for  I'm  too  poor.     I'm  a  back-number  now.     I 

189 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

had  to  give  up  singing  and  dancing  a  year  ago,  after 
George  died.  So  I  don't  earn  my  living  any  more,  and 
I  had  to  come  to  George's  father,  with  George's  boy." 

Aunt  Kate  had  a  shrewd  mind,  and  was  tactful, 
too.  She  did  not  understand  why  Cassy,  who  had 
earned  so  much  money  all  these  years,  should  be  so 
poor  now,  unless  it  was  that  she  hadn't  saved — that  she 
and  George  hadn't  saved.  But,  looking  at  the  face 
before  her,  and  the  child  on  the  bed,  she  was  convinced 
that  the  woman  was  a  good  woman;  that,  singer  and 
dancer  as  she  was,  there  was  no  reason  why  any  home 
should  be  closed  to  her,  or  any  heart  should  shut  its 
doors  before  her.  She  guessed  a  reason  for  this  poverty 
of  Cassy  Mavor,  but  it  only  made  her  lay  a  hand  on  the 
little  woman's  shoulders  and  look  into  her  eyes, 

"Cassy,"  she  said,  gently,  "  you  was  right  to  come  here. 
There's  trials  before  you,  but  for  the  boy's  sake  you 
must  bear  them.  Sophy,  George's  mother,  had  to  bear 
them,  and  Abel  was  fond  of  her,  too,  in  his  way.  He's 
stored  up  a  lot  of  things  to  say,  and  he'll  say  them;  but 
you'll  keep  the  boy  in  your  mind,  and  be  patient,  won't 
you,  Cassy?  You  got  rights  here,  and  it's  comfortable, 
and  there's  plenty,  and  the  air  will  cure  your  lung  as  it 
did  before.  It  did  all  right  before,  didn't  it?"  She 
handed  the  bowl  of  boneset  tea.  "Take  it;  it  '11  do  you 
good,  Cassy,"  she  added. 

Cassy  said  nothing  in  reply.  She  looked  at  the  bed 
where  her  boy  lay,  she  looked  at  the  angular  face  of  the 
woman,  with  its  brooding  motherliness,  at  the  soft,  gray 
hair,  and,  with  a  little  gasp  of  feeling,  she  raised  the 
bowl  to  her  lips  and  drank  freely.  Then,  putting  it 
down,  she  said: 

"He  doesn't  mean  to  have  us.  Aunt  Kate,  but  I'll  try 
and  keep  my  temper  down.  Did  he  ever  laugh  in  his 
life?" 

"He  laughs  sometimes — kind  o'  laughs." 

190 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

"I'll  make  him  laugh  real,  if  I  can,"  Cassy  rejoined. 
"I've  made  a  lot  of  people  laugh  in  my  time." 

The  old  woman  leaned  suddenly  over,  and  drew  the 
red,  ridiculous  head  to  her  shoulder  with  a  gasp  of 
affection,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"Cassy,"  she  exclaimed,  "Cassy,  you  make  me  cry!" 
and  then  she  turned  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

Three  hours  later  the  problem  was  solved  in  the  big 
sitting-room  where  Cassy  had  first  been  received  with 
her  boy.  Aunt  Kate  sat  with  her  feet  on  a  hassock, 
rocking  gently  and  watching  and  listening.  Black 
Andy  was  behind  the  great  stove  with  his  chair  tilted 
back,  carving  the  bowl  of  a  pipe;  the  old  man  sat  rigid 
by  the  table,  looking  straight  before  him  and  smacking 
his  lips  now  and  then  as  he  was  wont  to  do  at  meeting; 
while  Cassy,  with  her  chin  in  her  hands  and  elbows  on 
her  knees,  gazed  into  the  fire  and  waited  for  the  storm  to 
break. 

Her  little  flashes  of  humor  at  dinner  had  not  brightened 
things,  and  she  had  had  an  insane  desire  to  turn  cart- 
wheels round  the  room,  so  implacable  and  highly 
strained  was  the  attitude  of  the  master  of  the  house, 
so  unctuous  was  the  grace  and  the  thanksgiving  before 
and  after  the  meal.  Abel  Baragar  had  stored  up  his  an- 
ger and  his  righteous  antipathy  for  years,  and  this  was 
the  first  chance  he  had  had  of  visiting  his  displeasure 
on  the  woman  who  had  "ruined"  George,  and  who 
had  now  come  to  get  "rights,"  which  he  was  determined 
she  should  not  have.  He  had  steeled  himself  against 
seeing  any  good  in  her  whatever.  Self-will,  self-pride, 
and  self-righteousness  were  big  in  him,  and  so  the 
supper  had  ended  in  silence,  and  with  a  little  attack 
of  coughing  on  the  part  of  Cassy,  which  made  her  angry 
at  herself.  Then  the  boy  had  been  put  to  bed,  and 
she  had  come  back  to  await  the  expected  outburst. 
She  could  feel  it  in  the  air,  and  while  her  blood  tingled 

191 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

in  a  desire  to  fight  this  tyrant  to  the  bitter  end,  she 
thought  of  her  boy  and  his  future,  and  she  calmed  the 
tumult  in  her  veins. 

She  did  not  have  to  wait  very  long.  The  querulous 
voice  of  the  old  man  broke  the  silence. 

"When  be  you  goin'  back  East?  What  time  did  you 
fix  for  goin'  ? "  he  asked. 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him  squarely. 
"  I  didn't  fix  any  time  for  going  East  again,"  she  replied. 
"I  came  out  West  this  time  to  stay." 

"I  thought  you  was  on  the  stage,"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"I've  left  the  stage.  My  voice  went  when  I  got 
a  bad  cold  again,  and  I  couldn't  stand  the  draughts 
of  the  theatre,  and  so  I  couldn't  dance,  either.  I'm 
finished  with  the  stage.  I've  come  out  here  for  good 
and  all." 

"Where  did  you  think  of  livin'  out  here?" 

"I'd  like  to  have  gone  to  Lumley's,  but  that's  not 
possible,  is  it?  Anyway,  I  couldn't  afford  it  now. 
So  I  thought  I'd  stay  here,  if  there  was  room  for  me." 

"You  want  to  board  here?" 

"I  didn't  put  it  to  myself  that  way.  I  thought 
perhaps  you'd  be  glad  to  have  me.  I'm  handy.  I 
can  cook,  I  can  sew,  and  I'm  quite  cheerful  and  kind. 
Then  there's  George — little  George.  I  thought  you'd 
like  to  have  your  grandson  here  with  you." 

"  I've  lived  without  him — or  his  father — for  eight 
years,  an*  I  could  bear  it  awhile  yet,  mebbe." 

There  was  a  half-choking  sound  from  the  old  woman 
in  the  rocking-chair,  but  she  did  not  speak,  though  her 
knitting  dropped  into  her  lap. 

"But  if  you  knew  us  better,  perhaps  you'd  like  us 
better,"  rejoined  Gassy,  gently.  "We're  both  pretty 
easy  to  get  on  with,  and  we  see  the  bright  side  of  things. 
He  has  a  wonderful  disposition,  has  George." 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  like  you  any  better,"  said  the  old 

192 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

man,  getting  to  his  feet.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  give  you 
any  rights  here.  I've  thought  it  out,  and  my  mind's 
made  up.  You  can't  come  it  over  me.  You  ruined 
my  boy's  life  and  sent  him  to  his  grave.  He'd  have 
Hved  to  be  an  old  man  out  here;  but  you  spoiled  him. 
You  trapped  him  into  marrying  you,  with  your  kicking 
and  your  comic  songs,  and  your  tricks  of  the  stage,  and 
you  parted  us — parted  him  and  me  forever." 

"  That  was  your  fault.     George  wanted  to  make  it  up." 

"With  you!"  The  old  man's  voice  rose  shrilly,  the 
bitterness  and  passion  of  years  was  shooting  high  in 
the  narrow  confines  of  his  mind.  The  geyser  of  his 
prejudice  and  antipathy  was  furiously  alive.  "To 
come  back  with  you  that  ruined  him  and  broke  up 
my  family,  and  made  my  life  like  bitter  aloes!  No! 
And  if  I  wouldn't  have  him  with  you,  do  you  think 
I'll  have  you  without  him?  By  the  God  of  Israel, 
no!" 

Black  Andy  was  now  standing  up  behind  the  stove 
intently  watching,  his  face  grim  and  sombre;  Aunt 
Kate  sat  with  both  hands  gripping  the  arms  of  the 
rocker. 

Cassy  got  slowly  to  her  feet.  "  I've  been  as  straight  a 
woman  as  your  mother  or  your  wife  ever  was,"  she  said, 
"and  all  the  world  knows  it.  I'm  poor — and  I  might 
have  been  rich.  I  was  true  to  myself  before  I  married 
George,  and  I  was  true  to  George  after,  and  all  I  earned 
he  shared;  and  I've  got  little  left.  The  mining  stock 
I  bought  with  what  I  saved  went  smash,  and  I'm  poor 
as  I  was  when  I  started  to  work  for  myself.  I  can 
work  awhile  yet,  but  I  wanted  to  see  if  I  could  fit  in  out 
here  and  get  well  again,  and  have  my  boy  fixed  in  the 
house  of  his  grandfather.  That's  the  way  I'm  placed, 
and  that's  how  I  came.  But  give  a  dog  a  bad  name — 
ah,  you  shame  your  dead  boy  in  thinking  bad  of  me! 
I  didn't  ruin  him.     I  didn't  kill  him.     He  never  came 

193 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

to  any  bad  through  me.  I  helped  him;  he  was  happy. 
Why,  I — "  She  stopped  suddenly,  putting  a  hand  to  her 
mouth.  "  Go  on,  say  what  you  want  to  say,  and  let's  un- 
derstand once  for  all,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  sharpness. 

Abel  Baragar  drew  himself  up.  "  Well,  I  say  this. 
I'll  give  you  three  thousand  dollars,  and  you  can  go 
somewhere  else  to  live.  I'll  keep  the  boy  here.  That's 
what  I've  fixed  in  my  mind  to  do.  You  can  go,  and 
the  boy  stays.  I  ain't  goin'  to  live  with  you  that  spoiled 
George's  Hfe." 

The  eyes  of  the  woman  dilated,  she  trembled  with  a 
sudden  rush  of  anger,  then  stood  still,  staring  in  front 
of  her  without  a  word.  Black  Andy  stepped  from  be- 
hind the  stove. 

"You  are  going  to  stay  here.  Gassy,"  he  said,  "here 
where  you  have  rights  as  good  as  any,  and  better  than 
any,  if  it  comes  to  that."  He  turned  to  his  father. 
"You  thought  a  lot  of  George,"  he  added.  "He  was 
the  apple  of  your  eye.  He  had  a  soft  tongue,  and 
most  people  liked  him;  but  George  was  foolish — I've 
known  it  all  these  years.  George  was  pretty  foolish. 
He  gambled,  he  bet  at  races,  he  speculated— wild.  You 
didn't  know  it.  He  took  ten  thousand  dollars  of  your 
money,  got  from  the  Wonegosh  farm  he  sold  for  you. 
He—" 

Gassy  Mavor  started  forward  with  a  cry,  but  Black 
Andy  waved  her  down. 

"No,  I'm  going  to  tell  it.  George  lost  your  ten 
thousand  dollars,  dad,  gambling,  racing,  speculating. 
He  told  her — Gassy — two  days  after  they  was  married, 
and  she  took  the  money  she  earned  on  the  stage  and 
give  it  to  him  to  pay  you  back  on  the  quiet  through 
the  bank.  You  never  knew,  but  that's  the  kind  of  boy 
your  son  George  was,  and  that's  the  kind  of  wife  he 
had.  George  told  me  all  about  it  when  I  went  East 
six  years  ago." 

194 


GEORGE'S    WIFE 

He  came  over  to  Cassy  and  stood  beside  her.  "  I'm 
standing  by  George's  wife,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand, 
while  she  shut  her  eyes  in  her  misery — had  she  not 
hid  her  husband's  wrong-doing  all  these  years? — "I'm 
standing  by  her.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  ten  thousand 
dollars  she  paid  back  for  George,  you'd  have  been 
swamped,  when  the  Syndicate  got  after  you,  and  we 
wouldn't  have  had  Lumley's  place,  nor  this,  nor  any- 
thing.    I  guess  she's  got  rights  here,  dad,  as  good  as  any." 

The  old  man  sank  slowly  into  a  chair.  "  George — • 
George  stole  from  me — stole  money  from  me!"  he 
whispered.  His  face  was  white.  His  pride  and  vain- 
glory were  broken.  He  was  a  haggard,  shaken  figure. 
His  self-righteousness  was  levelled  in  the  dust. 

With  sudden  impulse  Cassy  stole  over  to  him  and 
took  his  hand  and  held  it  tight. 

"Don't!  Don't  feel  so  bad!"  she  said.  "He  was 
weak  and  wild  then.  But  he  was  all  right  afterward. 
He  was  happy  with  me." 

"I've  owed  Cassy  this  for  a  good  many  years,  dad," 
said  Black  Andy,  "and  it  had  to  be  paid.  She's  got 
better  stuff  in  her  than  any  Baragar," 

An  hour  later  the  old  man  said  to  Cassy  at  the  door 
of  her  room:  "You  got  to  stay  here  and  git  well.  It's 
yours,  the  same  as  the  rest  of  us — what's  here." 

Then  he  went  down-stairs  and  sat  with  Aunt  Kate  by 
the  fire.    ' 

"I  guess  she's  a  good  woman,"  he  said,  at  last.  "I 
didn't  use  her  right." 

"You've  been  lucky  with  your  women-folk,"  Aunt 
Kate  answered,  quietly. 

"Yes,  I've  been  lucky,"  he  answered.  "I  dunno  if 
I  deserve  it.    Mebbe  not.    Do  you  think  she'll  git  well?" 

"  It's  a  healing  air  out  here,"  Aunt  Kate  answered,  and 
listened  to  the  wood  of  the  house  snapping  in  the  sharp  frost. 
14  195 


MARCILE 

That  the  day  was  beautiful,  that  the  harvest  of  the 
West  had  been  a  great  one,  that  the  salmon-fishing 
had  been  larger  than  ever  before,  that  gold  had  been 
found  in  the  Yukon,  made  no  diflference  to  Jacques 
Grassette,  for  he  was  in  the  condemned  cell  of  Bindon 
Jail,  living  out  those  days  which  pass  so  swiftly  between 
the  verdict  of  the  jury  and  the  last  slow  walk  with  the 
Sheriff. 

He  sat  with  his  back  to  the  stone  wall,  his  hands  on 
his  knees,  looking  straight  before  him.  All  that  met 
his  physical  gaze  was  another  stone  wall,  but  with  his 
mind's  eye  he  was  looking  beyond  it  into  spaces  far 
away.  His  mind  was  seeing  a  little  house  with  dormer- 
windows,  and  a  steep  roof  on  which  the  snow  could  not 
lodge  in  winter-time;  with  a  narrow  stoop  in  front 
where  one  could  rest  of  an  evening,  the  day's  work 
done;  the  stone-and-earth  oven  near  by  in  the  open, 
where  the  bread  for  a  family  of  twenty  was  baked;  the 
wooden  plough  tipped  against  the  fence,  to  wait  the 
"fall"  cultivation;  the  big  iron  cooler  in  which  the  sap 
from  the  maple-trees  was  boiled,  in  the  days  when  the 
snow  thawed  and  spring  opened  the  heart  of  the  wood; 
the  flash  of  the  sickle  and  the  scythe  hard  by;  the  fields 
of  the  little,  narrow  farm  running  back  from  the  St. 
Lawrence  like  a  riband;  and,  out  on  the  wide  stream, 
the  great  rafts  with  their  riverine  population  floating 
down  to  Michelin's  mill-yards. 

196 


MARCILE 

For  hours  he  had  sat  like  this,  unmoving,  his  gnarled 
red  hands  clamping  each  leg  as  though  to  hold  him 
steady  while  he  gazed;  and  he  saw  himself  as  a  Httle 
lad,  barefooted,  doing  chores,  running  after  the  shaggy, 
troublesome  pony  which  would  let  him  catch  it  when  no 
one  else  could,  and,  with  only  a  halter  on,  galloping 
wildly  back  to  the  farm-yard,  to  be  hitched  up  in  the 
cariole  which  had  once  belonged  to  the  old  Seigneur. 
He  saw  himself  as  a  young  man  back  from  "the  States," 
where  he  had  been  working  in  the  mills,  regarded 
austerely  by  little  Father  Roche,  who  had  given  him 
his  first  Communion — for,  down  in  Massachusetts  he 
had  learned  to  wear  his  curly  hair  plastered  down  on 
his  forehead,  smoke  bad  cigars,  and  drink  "  old  Bourbon," 
to  bet  and  to  gamble,  and  be  a  figure  at  horse-races. 

Then  he  saw  himself,  his  money  all  gone,  but  the  luck 
still  with  him,  at  Mass  on  the  Sunday  before  going  to 
the  backwoods  lumber-camp  for  the  winter,  as  boss  of  a 
hundred  men.  He  had  a  way  with  him,  and  he  had 
brains,  had  Jacques  Grassette,  and  he  could  manage 
men,  as  Michelin  the  lumber-king  himself  had  found  in 
a  great  river-row  and  strike,  when  bloodshed  seemed 
certain.  Even  now  the  ghost  of  a  smile  played  at  his 
lips  as  he  recalled  the  surprise  of  the  old  habitants  and 
of  Father  Roche  when  he  was  chosen  for  this  responsible 
post;  for  to  run  a  great  lumber-camp  well,  hundreds  of 
miles  from  civilization,  where  there  is  no  visible  law, 
no  restraints  of  ordinary  organized  life,  and  where  men, 
for  seven  months  together,  never  saw  a  woman  or 
a  child,  and  ate  pork  and  beans,  and  drank  white 
whiskey,  was  a  task  of  administration  as  difficult  as 
managing  a  small  republic  new-created  out  of  violent 
elements  of  society.  But  Michelin  was  right,  and  the 
old  Seigneur,  Sir  Henri  Robitaille,  who  was  a  judge  of 
men,  knew  he  was  right,  as  did  also  Hennepin  the 
school-master,  whose  despair  Jacques  had  been,  for  he 

197 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

never  worked  at  his  lessons  as  a  boy,  and  yet  he  absorbed 
Latin  and  mathematics  by  some  sure  but  unexplainable 
process.  "Ah,  if  you  would  but  work,  Jacques,  you 
vaurien,  I  would  make  a  great  man  of  you,"  Hennepin 
hadjsaid  to  him  more  than  once;  but  this  had  made 
no  impression  on  Jacques.  It  was  more  to  the  point 
that  the  ground-hogs  and  black  squirrels  and  pigeons 
were  plentiful  in  Casanac  Woods. 

And  so  he  thought  as  he  stood  at  the  door  of  the 
Church  of  St.  Francis  on  that  day  before  going  "out 
back"  to  the  lumber-camp.  He  had  reached  the  summit 
of  greatness — to  command  men.  That  was  more  than 
wealth  or  learning,  and  as  he  spoke  to  the  old  Seigneur 
going  in  to  Mass,  he  still  thought  so,  for  the  Seigneur's 
big  house  and  the  servants  and  the  great  gardens  had  no 
charm  for  him.  The  horses— that  was  another  thing; 
but  there  would  be  plenty  of  horses  in  the  lumber-camp ; 
and,  on  the  whole,  he  felt  hiinself  rather  superior  to  the 
old  Seigneur,  who  now  was  Lieutenant-Governor  of  the 
province  in  which  lay  Bindon  Jail. 

At  the  door  of  the  Church  of  St.  Francis  he  had 
stretched  himself  up  with  good-natured  pride,  for  he 
was  by  nature  gregarious  and  friendly,  but  with  a 
temper  quick  and  strong,  and  even  savage  when  roused ; 
though  Michelin  the  lumber-king  did  not  know  that  when 
he  engaged  him  as  boss,  having  seen  him  only  at  the 
one  critical  time  when  his  superior  brain  and  will  saw 
its  chance  to  command  and  had  no  personal  interest  in 
the  strife.  He  had  been  a  miracle  of  coolness  then,  and 
his  six-foot-two  of  pride  and  muscle  was  taking  natural 
tribute  at  the  door  of  the  Church  of  St.  Francis,  where 
he  waited  till  nearly  every  one  had  entered,  and  Father 
Roche's  voice  could  be  heard  in  the  Mass. 

Then  had  happened  the  real  event  of  his  life:  a  black- 
eyed,  rose-cheeked  girl  went  by  with  her  mother,  hurry- 
ing in  to  Mass.     As  she  passed  him  their  eyes  met,  and 

198 


-HEN      HAD      HAPPENED     THE      REAL      EVENT     OF      HIS      LIFE 


MARCILE 

his  blood  leaped  in  his  veins.  He  had  never  seen  her 
before,  and,  in  a  sense,  he  had  never  seen  any  woman 
before.  He  had  danced  with  many  a  one,  and  kissed  a 
few  in  the  old  days  among  the  flax-beaters,  at  the 
harvesting,  in  the  gayeties  of  a  wedding,  and  also  down 
in  Massachusetts.  That,  however,  was  a  different  thing, 
which  he  forgot  an  hour  after ;  but  this  was  the  beginning 
of  the  world  for  him;  for  he  knew  now,  of  a  sudden, 
what  life  was,  what  home  meant,  why  "old  folks"  slaved 
for  their  children,  and  mothers  wept  when  girls  married 
or  sons  went  away  from  home  to  bigger  things;  why  in 
there,  in  at  Mass,  so  many  were  praying  for  all  the 
people  and  thinking  only  of  one.  All  in  a  moment  it 
came — and  stayed ;  and  he  spoke  to  her,  to  Marcile,  that 
very  night,  and  he  spoke  also  to  her  father,  Valloir  the 
farrier,  the  next  morning  by  lamplight,  before  he  started 
for  the  woods.  He  would  not  be  gainsaid,  nor  take  no 
for  an  answer,  nor  accept,  as  a  reason  for  refusal,  that 
she  was  only  sixteen,  and  that  he  did  not  know  her,  for 
she  had  been  away  with  a  childless  aunt  since  she  was 
three.  That  she  had  fourteen  brothers  and  sisters  who 
had  to  be  fed  and  cared  for  did  not  seem  to  weigh  with 
the  farrier.  That  was  an  affair  of  le  bon  Dieu,  and  enough 
would  be  provided  for  them  all  as  heretofore — one  could 
make  little  difference;  and  though  Jacques  was  a  very 
good  match,  considering  his  prospects  and  his  favor  with 
the  lumber-king,  Valloir  had  a  kind  of  fear  of  him,  and 
could  not  easily  promise  his  beloved  Marcile,  the  flower 
of  his  flock,  to  a  man  of  whom  the  priest  so  strongly 
disapproved.  But  it  was  a  new  sort  of  Jacques  Grassette 
who,  that  morning,  spoke  to  him  with  the  simplicity  and 
eagerness  of  a  child;  and  the  suddenly  conceived  gift  of 
a  pony  stallion,  which  every  man  in  the  parish  envied 
Jacques,  won  Valloir  over;  and  Jacques  went  "away 
back"  with  the  first  timid  kiss  of  Marcile  Valloir  burn- 
ing on  his  cheek. 

199 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"Well,  bagosh,  you  are  a  wonder!"  said  Jacques' 
father,  when  he  told  him  the  news,  and  saw  Jacques 
jump  into  the  cariole  and  drive  away. 

Here  in  prison,  this,  too,  Jacques  saw — this  scene;  and 
then  the  wedding  in  the  spring,  and  the  tour  through  the 
parishes  for  days  together,  lads  and  lasses  journeying 
with  them;  and  afterward  the  new  home  with  a  bigger 
stoop  than  any  other  in  the  village,  with  some  old, 
gnarled  crab-apple-trees  and  lilac  bushes,  and  four  years 
of  happiness,  and  a  little  child  that  died;  and  all  the 
time  Jacques  rising  in  the  esteem  of  Michelin  the  lumber- 
king,  and  sent  on  inspections,  and  to  organize  camps; 
for  weeks,  sometimes  for  months,  away  from  the  house 
behind  the  lilac  bushes — and  then  the  end  of  it  all,  sudden 
and  crushing  and  unredeemable. 

Jacques  came  back  one  night  and  found  the  house 
empty.  Marcile  had  gone  to  try  her  luck  with  another 
man. 

That  was  the  end  of  the  upward  career  of  Jacques 
Grassette.  He  went  out  upon  a  savage  hunt  which 
brought  him  no  quarry,  for  the  man  and  the  woman  had 
disappeared  as  completely  as  though  they  had  been 
swallowed  by  the  sea.  And  here,  at  last,  he  was  waiting 
for  the  day  when  he  must  settle  a  bill  for  a  human  life 
taken  in  passion  and  rage. 

His  big  frame  seemed  out  of  place  in  the  small  cell, 
and  the  watcher  sitting  near  him,  to  whom  he  had  not 
addressed  a  word  nor  replied  to  a  question  since  the 
watching  began,  seemed  an  insignificant  factor  in  the 
scene.  Never  had  a  prisoner  been  more  self-contained, 
or  rejected  more  completely  all  those  ministrations  of 
humanity  which  relieve  the  horrible  isolation  of  the 
condemned  cell.  Grassette's  isolation  was  complete. 
He  lived  in  a  dream,  did  what  little  there  was  to  do  in 
a  dark  abstraction,  and  sat  hour  after  hour,  as  he  was 
sitting  now,  piercing,  with  a  brain  at  once  benumbed 

200 


MARCILE 

to  all  outer  things  and  afire  with  inward  things,  those 
realms  of  memory  which  are  infinite  in  a  life  of  forty 
years. 

" Sucre!"  he  muttered  at  last,  and  a  shiver  seemed 
to  pass  through  him  from  head  to  foot ;  then  an  ugly  and 
evil  oath  fell  from  his  lips,  which  made  his  watcher 
shrink  back  appalled,  for  he  also  was  a  Catholic,  and 
had  been  chosen  of  purpose,  in  the  hope  that  he  might 
have  an  influence  on  this  revolted  soul.  It  had,  how- 
ever, been  of  no  use,  and  Grassette  had  refused  the 
advances  and  ministrations  of  the  little  good  priest, 
Father  Laflamme,  who  had  come  from  the  coast  of 
purpose  to  give  him  the  offices  of  the  Church.  Silent, 
obdurate,  sullen,  he  had  looked  the  priest  straight  in 
the  face,  and  had  said,  in  broken  English,  "  Non,  I  pay 
my  bill.  Nom  de  diable!  I  will  say  my  own  Mass,  light 
my  own  candle,  go  my  own  way.     I  have  too  much." 

Now,  as  he  sat  glooming,  after  his  outbreak  of  oaths, 
there  came  a  ratthng  noise  at  the  door,  the  grinding 
of  a  key  in  the  lock,  the  shooting  of  bolts,  and  a  face 
appeared  at  the  Httle  wicket  in  the  door.  Then  the  door 
opened,  and  the  Sheriflf  stepped  inside,  accompanied 
by  a  white-haired,  stately  old  man.  At  sight  of  this 
second  figure — the  Sheriff  had  come  often  before,  and 
would  come  for  one  more  doleful  walk  with  him — • 
Grassette  started.  His  face,  which  had  never  whitened 
in  all  the  dismal  and  terrorizing  doings  of  the  capture 
and  the  trial  and  sentence,  though  it  had  flushed  with 
rage  more  than  once,  now  turned  a  little  pale,  for  it 
seemed  as  if  this  old  man  had  stepped  out  of  the  visions 
which  had  just  passed  before  his  eyes. 

"His  Honor,  the  Lieutenant-Governor,  Sir  Henri 
Robitaille,  has  come  to  speak  with  you.  .  .  .  Stand  up!" 
the  Sheriff  added,  sharply,  as  Grassette  kept  his  seat. 

Grassette's  face  flushed  with  anger,  for  the  prison  had 
not  broken  his  spirit;   then  he  got  up  slowly.     "I  not 

20I 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

stand  up  for  you,"  he  growled  at  the  Sheriff;  "I  stand 
up  for  him."  He  jerked  his  head  toward  Sir  Henri 
Robitaille.  This  grand  Seigneur,  with  Michelin  had  be- 
lieved in  him  in  those  far-off  days  which  he  had  just 
been  seeing  over  again,  and  all  his  boyhood  and  young 
manhood  was  rushing  back  on  him.  But  now  it  was 
the  Governor  who  turned  pale,  seeing  who  the  criminal 
was. 

"Jacques  Grassette!"  he  cried,  in  consternation  and 
emotion,  for  under  another  name  the  murderer  had  been 
tried  and  sentenced,  nor  had  his  identity  been  estab- 
lished— the  case  was  so  clear,  the  defence  had  been 
perfunctory,  and  Quebec  was  very  far  away! 

"  M'sieu' ! "  was  the  respectful  response,  and  Grassette's 
fingers  twitched. 

"It  was  my  sister's  son  you  killed,  Grassette,"  said 
the  Governor,  in  a  low,  strained  voice. 

"Norn  de  Dieu!"  said  Grassette,  hoarsely. 

"I  did  not  know,  Grassette,"  the  Governor  went  on 
— "  I  did  not  know  it  was  you." 

"Why  did  you  come,  m'sieu'?" 

"Call  him  'your  Honor,'"  said  the  Sheriff,  sharply. 

Grassette's  face  hardened,  and  his  look,  turned  upon 
the  Sheriff,  was  savage  and  forbidding.  "  I  will  speak 
as  it  please  me.  Who  are  you  ?  What  do  I  care  ?  To 
hang  me — that  is  your  business;  but,  for  the  rest,  you 
spik  to  me  differen'!  Who  are  you?  Your  father  kep' 
a  tavern  for  thieves,  vous  savez  bien!"  It  was  true 
that  the  Sheriff's  father  had  had  no  savory  reputation 
in  the  West. 

The  Governor  turned  his  head  away  in  pain  and 
trouble,  for  the  man's  rage  was  not  a  thing  to  see — and 
they  both  came  from  the  little  parish  of  St.  Francis,  and 
had  passed  many  an  hour  together. 

"Never  mind,  Grassette,"  he  said,  gently.  "Call  me 
what  you  will.     You've  got  no  feeling  against  me;  and 

202 


MARCILE 

I  can  say  with  truth  that  I  don't  want  your  life  for  the 
life  you  took." 

Grassette's  breast  heaved.  "  He  put  me  out  of  my 
work,  the  man  I  kill.  He  pass  the  word  against  me,  he 
hunt  me  out  of  the  mountains,  he  call — tete  de  (liable! 
he  call  me  a  name  so  bad.  Everything  swim  in  my 
head,  and  I  kill  him." 

The  Governor  made  a  protesting  gesture.  "  I  under- 
stand. I  am  glad  his  mother  was  dead.  But  do  you 
not  think  how  sudden  it  was?  Now  here,  in  the  thick 
of  life,  then,  out  there,  beyond  this  world  in  the  dark — 
in  purgatory." 

The  brave  old  man  had  accomplished  what  every  one 
else,  priest,  lawyer.  Sheriff,  and  watcher,  had  failed  to 
do:  he  had  shaken  Grassette  out  of  his  blank  isolation 
and  obdurate  unrepentance,  had  touched  some  chord  of 
recognizable  humanity. 

"It  is  done — hien,  I  pay  for  it,"  responded  Grassette, 
setting  his  jaw.  "  It  is  two  deaths  for  me.  Waiting 
and  remembering,  and  then  with  the  Sheriff  there  the 
other — so  quick,  and  all." 

The  Governor  looked  at  him  for  some  moments 
without  speaking.  The  Sheriff  intervened  again  offi- 
ciously. 

"  His  Honor  has  come  to  say  something  important 
to  you,"  he  remarked,  oracularly. 

"  Hold  you — does  he  need  a  Sheriff  to  tell  him  when 
to  spik?"  was  Grassette's  surly  comment.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  Governor.  "Let  us  speak  in  French,"  he 
said,  in  patois.  "This  rope-twister  will  not  understan'. 
He  is  no  good — I  spit  at  him!" 

The  Governor  nodded,  and,  despite  the  Sheriff's 
protest,  they  spoke  in  French,  Grassette  with  his  eyes 
intently  fixed  on  the  other,  eagerly  listening. 

"I  have  come,"  said  the  Governor,  "to  say  to  you, 
Grassette,  that  you  still  have  a  chance  of  life." 

203 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

He  paused,  and  Grassette's  face  took  on  a  look  of 
bewilderment  and  vague  anxiety.  A  chance  of  life — 
what  did  it  mean? 

"Reprieve?"  he  asked,  in  a  hoarse  voice. 

The  Governor  shook  his  head.  "Not  yet;  but  there 
is  a  chance.  Something  has  happened.  A  man's  life 
is  in  danger,  or  it  may  be  he  is  dead;  but  more  likely 
he  is  alive.  You  took  a  life;  perhaps  you  can  save 
one  now.     Keeley's  Gulch,  the  mine  there!" 

"They  have  found  it — gold?"  asked  Grassette,  his 
eyes  staring.  He  was  forgetting  for  a  moment  where 
and  what  he  was. 

"  He  went  to  find  it,  the  man  whose  life  is  in  danger. 
He  had  heard  from  a  trapper  who  had  been  a  miner 
once.  While  he  was  there  a  landslip  came,  and  the 
opening  to  the  mine  was  closed  up." 

"There  were  two  ways  in.  Which  one  did  he  take?" 
cried  Grassette. 

"The  only  one  he  could  take,  the  only  one  he  or 
any  one  else  knew.  You  know  the  other  way  in — you 
only,  they  say." 

"  I  found  it — the  easier,  quick  way  in ;  a  year  ago  I 
found  it." 

"Was  it  near  the  other  entrance?" 

Grassette  shook  his  head.     "A  mile  away." 

"  If  the  man  is  alive — and  we  think  he  is — you  are  the 
only  person  that  can  save  him.  I  have  telegraphed  the 
Government.  They  do  not  promise,  but  they  will  re- 
prieve, and  save  your  life  if  you  find  the  man." 

"Alive  or  dead?" 

"  Alive  or  dead,  for  the  act  would  be  the  same.  I 
have  an  order  to  take  you  to  the  Gulch,  if  you  will  go; 
and  I  am  sure  that  you  will  have  your  life  if  you  do  it. 
I  will  promise — ah,  yes,  Grassette,  but  it  shall  be  so! 
Public  opinion  will  demand  it.     You  will  do  it?" 

"To  go  iree— altogether?" 

204 


MARCILE 

"Well,  but  if  your  life  is  saved,  Grassette?" 
The  dark  face  flushed,  then  grew  almost  repulsive 
again  in  its  sullenness. 

"Life — and  this,  in  prison,  shut  in  year  after  year! 
To  do  always  what  some  one  else  wills,  to  be  a  slave  to 
a  warder!  To  have  men  like  that  over  me  that  have 
been  a  boss  of  men — wasn't  it  that  drove  me  to  kill  ? — 
to  be  treated  like  dirt!  And  to  go  on  with  this,  while 
outside  there  is  free  life,  and  to  go  where  you  will  at 
your  own  price — no!  What  do  I  care  for  life?  What 
is  it  to  me!  To  live  like  this — ah,  I  would  break  my 
head  against  these  stone  walls,  I  would  choke  myself 
with  my  own  hands!  If  I  stayed  here,  I  would  kill 
again — I  would  kill — kill!" 

"  Then  to  go  free  altogether — that  would  be  the  wish 
of  all  the  world,  if  you  save  this  man's  life,  if  it  can  be 
saved.  Will  you  not  take  the  chance  ?  We  all  have  to 
die  some  time  or  other,  Grassette,  some  sooner,  some 
later;  and  when  you  go,  will  you  not  want  to  take  to 
God  in  your  hands  a  life  saved  for  a  life  taken?  Have 
you  forgotten  God,  Grassette?  We  used  to  remember 
Him  in  the  Church  of  St.  Francis  down  there  at  home." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  in  which  Grassette's 
head  was  thrust  forward,  his  eyes  staring  into  space. 
The  old  Seigneur  had  touched  a  vulnerable  corner  in 
his  nature. 

Presently  he  said  in  a  low  voice :  "  To  be  free  altogether! 
.  .  .  What  is  his  name?     Who  is  he?" 

"His  name  is  Bignold,"  the  Governor  answered.  He 
turned  to  the  Sheriff  inquiringly.  "That  is  it,  is  it 
not?"  he  asked,  in  English,  again. 

"James  Tarran  Bignold,"  answered  the  Sheriff. 

The  effect  of  these  words  upon  Grassette  was  remark- 
able. His  body  appeared  to  stiffen,  his  face  became 
rigid,  he  stared  at  the  Governor  blankly,  appalled;  the 
color  left  his  face,  and  his  mouth  opened  with  a  curious 

205 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

and  revolting  grimace.  The  others  drew  back,  startled, 
and  watched  him. 

"Sang  de  Dieu!"  he  murmured  at  last,  with  a  sudden 
gesture  of  misery  and  rage. 

Then  the  Governor  understood:  he  remembered  that 
the  name  just  given  by  the  Sheriff  and  himself  was  the 
name  of  the  Englishman  who  had  carried  off  Grassette's 
wife  years  ago.  He  stepped  forward  and  was  about 
to  speak,  but  changed  his  mind.  He  would  leave  it  all 
to  Grassette;  he  would  not  let  the  Sheriff  know  the 
truth,  unless  Grassette  himself  disclosed  the  situation. 
He  looked  at  Grassette  with  a  look  of  poignant  pity  and 
interest  combined.  In  his  own  placid  life  he  had  never 
had  any  tragic  happening,  his  blood  had  run  coolly,  his 
days  had  been  blessed  by  an  urbane  fate;  such  scenes 
as  this  were  but  a  spectacle  to  him ;  there  was  no  answer- 
ing chord  of  human  suffering  in  his  own  breast  to 
make  him  realize  what  Grassette  was  undergoing 
now;  but  he  had  read  widely,  he  had  been  an  acute 
observer  of  the  world  and  its  happenings,  and  he  had 
a  natural  human  sympathy  which  had  made  many  a 
man  and  woman  eternally  grateful  to  him. 

What  would  Grassette  do  ?  It  was  a  problem  which 
had  no  precedent,  and  the  solution  would  be  a  revelation 
of  the  human  mind  and  heart.     What  would  the  man  do  ? 

"Well,  what  is  all  this,  Grassette?"  asked  the  Sheriff, 
brusquely.  His  official  and  officious  intervention,  be- 
hind which  was  the  tyranny  of  the  little  man,  given  a 
power  which  he  was  incapable  of  wielding  wisely,  would 
have  roused  Grassette  to  a  savage  reply  a  half-hour 
before,  but  now  it  was  met  by  a  contemptuous  wave  of 
the  hand,  and  Grassette  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
Governor. 

"James  Tarran  Bignold!"  Grassette  said,  harshly, 
with  eyes  that  searched  the  Governor's  face;  but  they 
found  no  answering  look  there.     The  Governor,  then, 

206 


MARCILE 

did  not  remember  that  tragedy  of  his  home  and  hearth, 
and  the  man  who  had  made  of  him  an  Ishmael.  Still, 
Bignold  had  been  almost  a  stranger  in  the  parish,  and 
it  was  not  curious  if  the  Governor  had  forgotten. 

"Bignold!"  he  repeated,  but  the  Governor  gave  no 
response. 

"Yes,  Bignold  is  his  name,  Grassette,"  said  the 
Sheriff.  "  You  took  a  life,  and  now,  if  you  save  one, 
that  '11  balance  things.  As  the  Governor  says,  there'll 
be  a  reprieve  anyhow.  It's  pretty  near  the  day,  and  this 
isn't  a  bad  world  to  kick  in,  so  long  as  you  kick  with 
one  leg  on  the  ground,  and — " 

The  Governor  hastily  intervened  upon  the  Sheriff's 
brutal  remarks.  "There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,  Grassette. 
He  has  been  ten  days  in  the  mine." 

Grassette's  was  not  a  slow  brain.  For  a  man  of  such 
physical  and  bodily  bulk,  he  had  more  talents  than  are 
generally  given.  If  his  brain  had  been  slower,  his  hand 
also  would  have  been  slower  to  strike.  But  his  intelli- 
gence had  been  surcharged  with  hate  these  many  years, 
and  since  the  day  he  had  been  deserted  it  had  ceased 
to  control  his  actions — a  passionate  and  reckless  wilful- 
ness had  governed  it.  But  now,  after  the  first  shock 
and  stupefaction,  it  seemed  to  go  back  to  where  it  was 
before  Marcile  went  from  him,  gather  up  the  force  and 
intelligence  it  had  then,  and  come  forward  again  to  this 
supreme  moment,  with  all  that  life's  harsh  experiences 
had  done  for  it,  with  the  education  that  misery  and 
misdoing  give.  Revolutions  are  often  the  work  of 
instants,  not  years,  and  the  crucial  test  and  problem  by 
which  Grassette  was  now  faced  had  lifted  him  into  a 
new  atmosphere,  with  a  new  capacity  alive  in  him.  A 
moment  ago  his  eyes  had  been  bloodshot  and  swimming 
with  hatred  and  passion;  now  they  grew,  almost  sud- 
denly, hard  and  lurking  and  quiet,  with  a  strange, 
penetrating  force  and  inquiry  in  them. 

207 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"Bignold — where  does  he  come  from  ? — what  is  he?" 
he  asked  the  Sheriff. 

"He  is  an  Englishman;  he's  only  been  out  here 
a  few  months.  He's  been  shooting  and  prospecting; 
but  he's  a  better  shooter  than  a  prospector.  He's  a 
stranger;  that's  why  all  the  folks  out  here  want  to  save 
him  if  it's  possible.  It's  pretty  hard  dying  in  a  strange 
land  far  away  from  all  that's  yours.  Maybe  he's  got 
a  wife  waiting  for  him  over  there." 

"A/^om  de  Dieu!"  said  Grassette,  with  suppressed 
malice,  under  his  breath. 

"Maybe  there's  a  wife  waiting  for  him,  and  there's 
her  to  think  of.  The  West's  hospitable,  and  this  thing 
has  taken  hold  of  it;  the  West  wants  to  save  this  stranger, 
and  it's  waiting  for  you,  Grassette,  to  do  its  work 
for  it,  you  being  the  only  man  that  can  do  it,  the  only 
one  that  knows  the  other  secret  way  into  Keeley's 
Gulch.  Speak  right  out,  Grassette.  It's  your  chance 
for  life.     Speak  out  quick." 

The  last  three  words  were  uttered  in  the  old  slave- 
driving  tone,  though  the  earlier  part  of  the  speech  had 
been  delivered  oracularly,  and  had  brought  , again  to 
Grassette's  eyes  the  reddish,  sullen  look  which  had  made 
them,  a  little  while  before,  like  those  of  some  wounded, 
angered  animal  at  bay;  but  it  vanished  slowly,  and 
there  was  silence  for  a  moment.  The  Sheriff's  words 
had  left  no  vestige  of  doubt  in  Grassette's  mind.  This 
Bignold  was  the  man  who  had  taken  Marcile  away,  first 
to  the  English  province,  then  into  the  States,  where  he 
had  lost  track  of  them,  then  over  to  England.  Marcile 
— where  was  Marcile  now? 

In  Keeley's  Gulch  was  the  man  who  could  tell  him, 
the  man  who  had  ruined  his  home  and  his  life.  Dead 
or  alive,  he  was  in  Keeley's  Gulch,  the  man  who  knew 
where  Marcile  was;  and  if  he  knew  where  Marcile  was, 
and  if  she  was  alive,  and  he  was  outside  these  prison 

208 


MARCILE 

walls,  what  would  he  do  to  her?  And  if  he  was  out- 
side these  prison  walls,  and  in  the  Gulch,  and  the  man 
was  there  alive  before  him,  what  would  he  do  ? 

Outside  these  prison  walls — to  be  out  there  in  the 
sun,  where  life  would  be  easier  to  give  up,  if  it  had  to  be 
given  up!  An  hour  ago  he  had  been  drifting  on  a  sea 
of  apathy,  and  had  had  his  fill  of  life.  An  hour  ago  he 
had  had  but  one  desire,  and  that  was  to  die  fighting, 
and  he  had  even  pictured  to  himself  a  struggle  in  this 
narrow  cell  where  he  would  compel  them  to  kill  him, 
and  so  in  any  case  let  him  escape  the  rope.  Now  he 
was  suddenly  brought  face  to  face  with  the  great  central 
issue  of  his  life,  and  the  end,  whatever  that  end  might 
be,  could  not  be  the  same  in  meaning,  though  it  might 
be  the  same  concretely.  If  he  elected  to  let  things 
be,  then  Bignold  would  die  out  there  in  the  Gulch, 
starved,  anguished,  and  alone.  If  he  went,  he  could 
save  his  own  life  by  saving  Bignold,  if  Bignold  was 
alive;  or  he  could  go — and  not  save  Bignold's  life  or. 
his  own!     What  would  he  do? 

The  Governor  watched  him  with  a  face  controlled  to 
quietness,  but  with  an  anxiety  which  made  him  pale  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"What  will  you  do,  Grassette?"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a 
low  voice  and  with  a  step  forward  to  him.  "Will  you 
not  help  to  clear  your  conscience  by  doing  this  thing? 
You  don't  want  to  try  and  spite  the  world  by  not  doing 
it.  You  can  make  a  lot  of  your  life  yet,  if  you  are  set 
free.  Give  yourself  and  give  the  world  a  chance.  You 
haven't  used  it  right.     Try  again." 

Grassette  imagined  that  the  Governor  did  not  re- 
member who  Bignold  was,  and  that  this  was  an  appeal 
against  his  despair,  and  against  revenging  himself  on 
the  community  which  had  applauded  his  sentence.  If 
he  went  to  the  Gulch,  no  one  would  know  or  could  sus- 
pect the  true  situation,  every  one  would  be  unprepared 

209 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

for  that  moment  when  Bignold  and  he  would  face  each 
other — and  all  that  would  happen  then. 

Where  was  Marcile?  Only  Bignold  knew.  Alive  or 
dead?     Only  Bignold  knew. 

"  Bien,  I  will  do  it,  m'sieu',"  he  said  to  the  Governor. 
"I  am  to  go  alone — eh?" 

The  Sheriff  shook  his  head.  "No;  two  warders  will 
go  with  you — and  myself." 

A  strange  look  passed  over  Grassette's  face.  He 
seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  moment,  then  he  said  again: 
"Bon,  I  will  go." 

"Then  there  is,  of  course,  the  doctor,"  said  the 
Sheriff. 

" Bon r'  said  Grassette.     "What  time  is  it ? " 

"Twelve  o'clock,"  answered  the  Sheriff,  and  made 
a  motion  to  the  warder  to  open  the  door  of  the  cell. 

"By  sundown!"  Grassette  said,  and  he  turned  with  a 
determined  gesture  to  leave  the  cell. 

At  the  gate  of  the  prison  a  fresh,  sweet  air  caught 
his  face.  Involuntarily  he  drew  in  a  great  draught  of 
it,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  gaze  out,  almost  wonder- 
ingly,  over  the  grass  and  the  trees  to  the  boundless 
horizon.  Then  he  became  aware  of  the  shouts  of  the 
crowd — shouts  of  welcome.  This  same  crowd  had 
greeted  him  with  shouts  of  execration  when  he  had  left 
the  court  -  house  after  his  sentence.  He  stood  still  for 
a  moment  and  looked  at  them,  as  it  were  only  half 
comprehending  that  they  were  cheering  him  now,  and 
that  voices  were  saying,  "Bravo,  Grassette!  Save  him, 
and  we'll  save  you." 

Cheer  upon  cheer,  but  he  took  no  notice.  He  walked 
like  one  in  a  dream — a  long,  strong  step.  He  turned 
neither  to  left  nor  right,  not  even  when  the  friendly 
voice  of  one  who  had  worked  with  him  bade  him 
"Cheer  up  and  do  the  trick."  He  was  busy  working 
out  a  problem  which  no  one  but  himself  could  solve. 

210 


MARCILE 

He  was  only  half  conscious  of  his  surroundings;  he  was 
moving  in  a  kind  of  detached  world  of  his  own,  where 
the  warders  and  the  Sheriff  and  those  who  followed  were 
almost  abstract  and  unreal  figures.  He  was  living  with 
a  past  which  had  been  everlastingly  distant,  and  had  now 
become  a  vivid  and  buffeting  present.  He  returned  no 
answers  to  the  questions  addressed  to  him,  and  would 
not  talk,  save  when  for  a  little  while  they  dismounted 
from  their  horses  and  sat  under  the  shade  of  a  great 
ash-tree  for  a  few  moments  and  snatched  a  mouthful  of 
luncheon.  Then  he  spoke  a  little  and  asked  some 
questions,  but  lapsed  into  a  moody  silence  afterward. 
His  life  and  nature  were  being  passed  through  a  fiery 
crucible.  In  all  the  years  that  had  gone  he  had  had  an 
ungovernable  desire  to  kill  both  Bignold  and  Marcile  if 
he  ever  met  them — a  primitive,  savage  desire  to  blot 
them  out  of  life  and  being.  His  fingers  had  ached  for 
Marcile's  neck,  that  neck  in  which  he  had  lain  his  face 
so  often  in  the  transient,  unforgettable  days  of  their 
happiness.     If  she  was  alive  now! — if  she  was  still  alive! 

Her  story  was  hidden  there  in  Keeley's  Gulch  with 
Bignold,  and  he  was  galloping  hard  to  reach  his  foe.  As 
he  went,  by  some  strange  alchemy  of  human  experience, 
by  that  new  birth  of  his  brain,  the  world  seemed  dif- 
ferent from  what  it  had  ever  been  before,  at  least 
since  the  day  when  he  had  found  an  empty  home  and  a 
shamed  hearthstone.  He  got  a  new  feeling  toward  it, 
and  life  appealed  to  him  as  a  thing  that  might  have 
been  so  well  worth  living!  But  since  that  was  not  to 
be,  then  he  would  see  what  he  could  do  to  get  com- 
pensation for  all  that  he  had  lost,  to  take  toll  for  the 
thing  that  had  spoiled  him,  and  given  him  a  savage  nature 
and  a  raging  temper,  which  had  driven  him  at  last  to  kill 
a  man  who,  in  no  real  sense,  had  injured  him. 

Mile  after  mile  they  journeyed,  a  troop  of  interested 
people  coming  after;  the  sun  and  the  clear,  sweet  air,  the 

IS  211 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

waving  grass,  the  occasional  clearings  where  settlers  had 
driven  in  the  tent-pegs  of  home;  the  forest  now  and  then 
swallowing  them,  the  mountains  rising  above  them  like 
a  blank  wall,  and  then  suddenly  opening  out  before 
them;  and  the  rustle  and  scamper  of  squirrels  and 
coyotes;  and  over  their  heads  the  whistle  of  birds,  the 
slow  beat  of  wings  of  great  wild-fowl.  The  tender  sap 
of  youth  was  in  this  glowing  and  alert  new  world,  and, 
by  sudden  contrast  with  the  prison  walls  which  he  had 
just  left  behind,  the  earth  seemed  recreated,  unfamiliar, 
compelling,  and  companionable.  Strange  that  in  all 
the  years  that  had  been  since  he  had  gone  back  to  his 
abandoned  home  to  find  Marcile  gone,  the  world  had 
had  no  beauty,  no  lure  for  him.  In  the  splendor  of  it 
all  he  had  only  raged  and  stormed,  hating  his  fellow- 
man,  waiting,  however  hopelessly,  for  the  day  when  he 
should  see  Marcile  and  the  man  who  had  taken  her 
from  him.  And  yet  now,  under  the  degradation  of  his 
crime  and  its  penalty,  and  the  unmanning  influence  of 
being  the  helpless  victim  of  the  iron  power  of  the  law, 
rigid,  ugly,  and  demoralizing — now  with  the  solution  of 
his  life's  great  problem  here  before  him  in  the  hills,  with 
the  man  for  whom  he  had  waited  so  long  caverned  in 
the  earth  but  a  hand-reach  away,  as  it  were,  his  wrongs 
had  taken  a  new  manifestation  in  him,  and  the  thing 
that  kept  crying  out  in  him  every  moment  was.  Where 
is  Marcile? 

It  was  four  o'clock  when  they  reached  the  pass  which 
only  Grassette  knew,  the  secret  way  into  the  Gulch. 
There  was  two  hours'  walking  through  the  thick, 
primeval  woods,  where  few  had  ever  been,  except  the 
ancient  tribes  which  had  once  lorded  it  here;  then  came 
a  sudden  drop  into  the  earth,  a  short  travel  through 
a  dim  cave,  and  afterward  a  sheer  wall  of  stone  en- 
closing a  ravine  where  the  rocks  on  either  side  nearly 
met  overhead. 

212 


MARCILE 

Here  Grassette  gave  the  signal  to  shout  aloud,  and 
the  voice  of  the  Sheriff  called  out:  "Hello,  Bignold! 
Hello!  Hello,  Bignold!  Are  you  there ?— Hello ! "  His 
voice  rang  out  clear  and  piercing,  and  then  came  a 
silence — a  long,  anxious  silence.  Again  the  voice  rang 
out:    "Hello!     Hello-o-o!     Bignold!     Bigno-o-ld!" 

They  strained  their  ears.  Grassette  was  flat  on  the 
ground,  his  ear  to  the  earth.  Suddenly  he  got  to  his 
feet,  his  face  set,  his  eyes  glittering. 

"He  is  there  beyon' — I  hear  him,"  he  said,  pointing 
farther  down  the  Gulch.     "Water — he  is  near  it." 

"We  heard  nothing,"  said  the  Sheriff — "not  a  sound." 

"I  hear  ver'  good.  He  is  alive. — I  hear  him — so," 
responded  Grassette;  and  his  face  had  a  strange,  fixed 
look  which  the  others  interpreted  to  be  agitation  at  the 
thought  that  he  had  saved  his  own  life  by  finding 
Bignold — and  alive;  which  would  put  his  own  salvation 
beyond  doubt. 

He  broke  away  from  them  and  hurried  down  the 
Gulch.  The  others  followed  hard  after,  the  Sheriff  and 
the  warders  close  behind ;  but  he  outstripped  them. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  and  stood  still,  looking  at 
something  on  the  ground.  They  saw  him  lean  forward 
and  his  hands  stretched  out  with  a  fierce  gesture.  It  was 
the  attitude  of  a  wild  animal  ready  to  spring. 

They  were  beside  him  in  an  instant,  and  saw  at  his 
feet  Bignold  worn  to  a  skeleton,  with  eyes  starting  from 
his  head  and  fixed  on  Grassette  in  agony  and  stark  fear. 

The  Sheriff  stooped  to  lift  Bignold  up,  but  Grassette 
waved  them  back  with  a  fierce  gesture,  standing  over 
the  dying  man. 

"  He  spoil  my  home.  He  break  me — I  have  my  bill 
to  settle  here,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  hoarse  and  harsh.  "  It 
is  so?     It  is  so — eh?     Spik!"  he  said  to  Bignold. 

"  Yes,"  came  feebly  from  the  shrivelled  lips.  "  Water  I 
Water!"  the  wretched  man  gasped.     "I'm  dying!" 

213 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

A  sudden  change  came  over  Grassette.  "  Water — 
queeck!"  he  said. 

The  Sheriff  stooped  and  held  a  hatful  of  water  to 
Bignold's  lips,  while  another  poured  brandy  from  a  flask 
into  the  water. 

Grassette  watched  them  eagerly.  When  the  dying 
man  had  swallowed  a  little  of  the  spirit  and  water, 
Grassette  leaned  over  him  again,  and  the  others  drew 
away.  They  realized  that  these  two  men  had  an  account 
to  settle,  and  there  was  no  need  for  Grassette  to  take 
revenge,  for  Bignold  was  going  fast. 

"  You  Stan'  far  back,"  said  Grassette,  andthey  fell  away. 

Then  he  stooped  down  to  the  sunken,  ashen  face, 
over  which  death  was  fast  drawing  its  veil. 

"Marcile — where  is  Marcile?"  he  asked. 

The  dying  man's  lips  opened.  "  God  forgive  me — 
God  save  my  soul!"  he  whispered.  He  was  not  con- 
cerned for  Grassette  now. 

"Queeck — queeck,  where  is  Marcile?"  Grassette  said, 
sharply.  "  Come  back,  Bignold.  Listen — where  is  Mar- 
cile?" 

He  strained  to  hear  the  answer.  Bignold  was  going, 
but  his  eyes  opened  again,  however,  for  this  call  seemed 
to  pierce  to  his  soul  as  it  struggled  to  be  free. 

"  Ten  years — since — I  saw  ner,"  he  whispered.  "  Good 
girl — Marcile.  She  loves  you,  but  she — is  afraid."  He 
tried  to  say  something  more,  but  his  tongue  refused 
its  office. 

"Where  is  she? — spik!"  commanded  Grassette,  in  a 
tone  of  pleading  and  agony  now. 

Once  more  the  flying  spirit  came  back.  A  hand 
made  a  motion  toward  his  pocket,  then  lay  still. 

Grassette  felt  hastily  in  the  dead  man's  pocket,  drew 
forth  a  letter,  and  with  half-blinded  eyes  read  the  few 
lines  it  contained.  It  was  dated  from  a  hospital  in 
New  York,  and  was  signed,  "Nurse  Marcile." 

214 


M  A  R  C  I  L  E 

With  a  groan  of  relief  Grassette  stood  staring  at  the 
dead  man.  When  the  others  came  to  him  again,  his 
Hps  were  moving,  but  they  did  not  hear  what  he  was 
saying.  They  took  up  the  body  and  moved  away  with 
it  up  the  ravine. 

"  It's  all  right,  Grassette.  You'll  be  a  free  man,"  said 
the  Sheriff. 

Grassette  did  not  answer.  He  was  thinking  how 
long  it  would  take  him  to  get  to  Marcile,  when  he  was 
free. 

He  had  a  true  vision  of  beginning  life  again  with 
Marcile. 


A  MAN,  A  FAMINE,  AND  A  HEATHEN  BOY 


Athabasca  in  the  Far  North  is  the  scene  of  this 
story — Athabasca,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  countries 
in  the  world  in  summer,  but  a  cold,  bare  land  in  winter. 
Yet  even  in  winter  it  is  not  so  bleak  and  bitter  as  the 
districts  southwest  of  it,  for  the  Chinook  winds  Steal 
through  from  the  Pacific  and  temper  the  fierceness  of  the 
frozen  Rockies.  Yet  forty  and  fifty  degrees  below  zero 
is  cold,  after  all,  and  July  strawberries  in  this  wild  North- 
land are  hardly  compensation  for  seven  months  of  ice 
and  snow,  no  matter  how  clear  and  blue  the  sky,  how 
sweet  the  sun  during  its  short  journey  in  the  day.  Some 
days,  too,  the  sun  may  not  be  seen  even  when  there  is  no 
storm,  because  of  the  fine,  white,  powdered  frost  in  the 
air. 

A  day  like  this  is  called  a  poudre  day;  and  woe  to 
the  man  who  tempts  it  unthinkingly,  because  the  light 
makes  the  delicate  mist  of  frost  shine  like  silver.  For 
that  powder  bites  the  skin  white  in  short  order,  and 
sometimes  reckless  men  lose  ears  or  noses  or  hands 
under  its  sharp  caress.  But  when  it  really  storms  in 
that  Far  North,  then  neither  man  nor  beast  should  be 
abroad — not  even  the  Eskimo  dogs;  though  times  and 
seasons  can  scarcely  be  chosen  when  travelling  in 
Athabasca,  for  a  storm  comes  unawares.  Upon  the 
plains  you  will  see  a  cloud  arising,  not  in  the  sky,  but 

216 


A  MAN,  A  FAMINE,  AND  A  HEATHEN  BOY 

from  the  ground — a  billowy  surf  of  drifting  snov/;  then 
another  white  billow  from  the  sky  will  sweep  down  and 
meet  it,  and  you  are  caught  between. 

He  who  went  to  Athabasca  to  live  a  generation  ago 
had  to  ask  himself  if  the  long  winter,  spent  chiefly 
indoors,  with,  maybe,  a  little  trading  with  the  Indians, 
meagre  sport,  and  scant  sun,  savages  and  half-breeds  the 
only  companions,  and  out  of  all  touch  with  the  outside 
world,  letters  coming  but  once  a  year;  with  frozen  fish 
and  meat,  always  the  same,  as  the  staple  items  in  a 
primitive  fare ;  with  danger  from  starvation  and  maraud- 
ing tribes;  with  endless  monotony,  in  which  men  some- 
times go  mad — he  had  to  ask  himself  if  these  were  to  be 
cheerfully  endured  because,  in  the  short  summer,  the 
air  is  heavenly,  the  rivers  and  lakes  are  full  of  fish,  the 
flotilla  of  canoes  of  the  fur-hunters  is  pouring  down, 
and  all  is  gayety  and  pleasant  turmoil;  because  there 
is  good  shooting  in  the  autumn,  and  the  smell  of  the  land 
is  like  a  garden,  and  hardy  fruits  and  flowers  are  at  hand. 

That  is  a  question  which  was  asked  William  Rufus 
Holly  once  upon  a  time. 

William  Rufus  Holly,  often  called  "  Averdoopoy, 
sometimes  "Sleeping  Beauty,"  always  Billy  Rufus,  had 
had  a  good  education.  He  had  been  to  high-school  and 
to  college,  and  he  had  taken  one  or  two  prizes  en  route 
to  graduation;  but  no  fame  travelled  with  him,  save 
that  he  was  the  laziest  man  of  any  college  year  for  a 
decade.  He  loved  his  little  porringer,  which  is  to  say 
that  he  ate  a  good  deal;  and  he  loved  to  read  books, 
which  is  not  to  say  that  he  loved  study ;  he  hated  getting 
out  of  bed,  and  he  was  constantly  gated  for  morning 
chapel.  More  than  once  he  had  sweetly  gone  to  sleep 
over  his  examination  papers.  This  is  not  to  say  that 
he  failed  at  his  examinations  —  on  the  contrary,  he 
always  succeeded;  but  he  only  did  enough  to  pass  and 
no  more;  and  he  did  not  wish  to  do  more  than  pass. 

217 


i» 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

His  going  to  sleep  at  examinations  was  evidence  that 
he  was  either  indifferent  or  self-indulgent,  and  it  cer- 
tainly showed  that  he  was  without  nervousness.  He 
invariably  roused  himself,  or  his  professor  roused  him,  a 
half-hour  before  the  papers  should  be  handed  in,  and,  as 
it  were,  by  a  mathematical  calculation  he  had  always 
done  just  enough  to  prevent  him  being  plucked. 

He  slept  at  lectures,  he  slept  in  hall,  he  slept  as  he 
waited  his  turn  to  go  to  the  wicket  in  a  cricket  match, 
and  he  invariably  went  to  sleep  afterward.  He  even 
did  so  on  the  day  he  had  made  the  biggest  score  in  the 
biggest  game  ever  played  between  his  college  and  the 
pick  of  the  country;  but  he  first  gorged  himself  with 
cake  and  tea.  The  day  he  took  his  degree  he  had  to  be 
dragged  from  a  huge  grandfather's  chair  and  forced  along 
in  his  ragged  gown  —  "ten  holes  and  twelve  tatters" 
— to  the  function  in  the  convocation-hall.  He  looked 
so  fat  and  shiny,  so  balmy  and  sleepy,  when  he  took  his 
degree  and  was  handed  his  prize  for  a  poem  on  Sir  John 
Franklin,  that  the  public  laughed,  and  the  college  men 
in  the  gallery  began  singing — 

"  Bye  O,  my  baby, 
Father  will  come  to  you  soo-oon!" 

He  seemed  not  to  care,  but  yawned  in  his  hand  as  he 
put  his  prize  book  under  his  arm  through  one  of  the 
holes  in  his  gown,  and  in  two  minutes  was  back  in  his 
room,  and  in  another  five  was  fast  asleep. 

It  was  the  general  opinion  that  William  Rufus  Holly, 
fat,  yellow-haired,  and  twenty-four  years  old,  was  doomed 
to  failure  in  life,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  a  little 
income  of  a  thousand  dollars  a  year  and  had  made 
a  century  in  an  important  game  of  cricket.  Great, 
therefore,  was  the  surprise  of  the  college,  and  afterward 
of  the  Province,  when,  at  the  farewell  dinner  of  the 
graduates,    Sleeping    Beauty    announced,    between    his 

218 


A  MAN,  A  FAMINE,  AND  A  HEATHEN  BOY 

little  open-eyed  naps,  that  he  was  going  Far  North  as 
a  missionary. 

At  first  it  was  thought  he  was  joking,  but  when  at 
last,  in  his  calm  and  dreamy  look,  they  saw  he  meant 
what  he  said,  they  arose  and  carried  him  round  the  room 
on  a  chair,  making  impromptu  songs  as  they  travelled. 
They  toasted  Billy  Rufus  again  and  again,  some  of 
them  laughing  till  they  cried  at  the  thought  of  Aver- 
doopoy  going  to  the  Arctic  regions.  But  an  uneasy  seri- 
ousness fell  upon  these  "beautiful,  bountiful,  brilliant 
boys,"  as  Holly  called  them  later,  when  in  a  simple, 
honest,  but  indolent  speech  he  said  he  had  applied  for 
ordination. 

Six  months  later  William  Rufus  Holly,  a  deacon  in 
holy  orders,  journeyed  to  Athabasca  in  the  Far  North. 

On  his  long  journey  there  was  plenty  of  time  to 
think.  He  was  embarked  on  a  career  which  must 
forever  keep  him  in  the  wilds;  for  very  seldom  indeed 
does  a  missionary  of  the  North  ever  return  to  the 
crowded  cities  or  take  a  permanent  part  in  civilized  life. 

What  the  loneliness  of  it  would  be  he  began  to  feel, 
as  for  hours  and  hours  he  saw  no  human  being  on  the 
plains;  in  the  thrilling  stillness  of  the  night;  in  fierce 
storms  in  the  woods,  when  his  half-breed  guides  bent 
their  heads  to  meet  the  wind  and  rain,  and  did  not 
speak  for  hours;  in  the  long,  adventurous  journey  on 
the  river  by  the  day,  in  the  cry  of  the  plaintive  loon  at 
night;  in  the  scant  food  for  every  meal.  Yet  what  the 
pleasure  would  be  he  felt  in  the  joyous  air,  the  exquisite 
sunshine,  the  flocks  of  wild-fowd  flying  north,  honking  on 
their  course;  in  the  song  of  the  half-breeds  as  they  ran 
the  rapids.  Of  course,  he  did  not  think  these  things 
quite  as  they  are  written  here  —  all  at  once  and  all 
together;  but  in  little  pieces  from  time  to  time,  feeling 
them  rather  than  saying  them  to  himself. 

At  least  he  did  understand  how  serious  a  thing  it  was, 

219 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

his  going  as  a  missionary  into  the  Far  North.  Why  did 
he  do  it?  Was  it  a  whim,  or  the  excited  imagination 
of  youth,  or  that  prompting  which  the  young  often  have 
to  make  the  world  better?  Or  was  it  a  fine  spirit  of 
adventure  with  a  good  heart  behind  it  ?  Perhaps  it  was 
a  Httle  of  all  these;  but  there  was  also  something  more, 
and  it  was  to  his  credit. 

Lazy  as  William  Rufus  Holly  had  been  at  school  and 
college,  he  had  still  thought  a  good  deal,  even  when  he 
seemed  only  sleeping;  perhaps  he  thought  more  because 
he  slept  so  much,  because  he  studied  little  and  read  a 
great  deal.  He  always  knew  what  everybody  thought 
— that  he  would  never  do  anything  but  play  cricket  till 
he  got  too  heavy  to  run,  and  then  would  sink  into  a 
slothful,  fat,  and  useless  middle  and  old  age;  that  his 
life  would  be  a  failure.  And  he  knew  that  they  were 
right;  that  if  he  stayed  where  he  could  live  an  easy  life, 
a  fat  and  easy  life  he  would  lead ;  that  in  a  few  years  he 
would  be  good  for  nothing  except  to  eat  and  sleep — no 
more.  One  day,  waking  suddenly  from  a  bad  dream  of 
himself  so  fat  as  to  be  drawn  about  on  a  dray  by  mon- 
strous fat  oxen  with  rings  through  their  noses,  led 
by  monkeys,  he  began  to  wonder  what  he  should  do — 
the  hardest  thing  to  do;  for  only  the  hardest  life  could 
possibly  save  him  from  failure,  and,  in  spite  of  all,  he 
really  did  want  to  make  something  of  his  life.  He  had 
been  reading  the  story  of  Sir  John  Franklin's  Arctic 
expedition,  and  all  at  once  it  came  home  to  him  that 
the  only  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  go  to  the  Far  North 
and  stay  there,  coming  back  about  once  every  ten  years 
to  tell  the  people  in  the  cities  what  was  being  done  in 
the  wilds.  Then  there  came  the  inspiration  to  write  his 
poem  on  Sir  John  Franklin,  and  he  had  done  so,  winning 
the  college  prize  for  poetry.  But  no  one  had  seen  any 
change  in  him  in  those  months;  and,  indeed,  there  had 
been  little  or  no  change,  for  he  had  an  equable  and 

220 


A  MAN,  A  FAMINE,  AND  A  HEATHEN  BOY 

practical,  though  imaginative,  disposition,  despite  his 
avoirdupois,  and  his  new  purpose  did  not  stir  him  yet 
from  his  comfortable  sloth. 

And  in  all  the  journey  west  and  north  he  had  not 
been  stirred  greatly  from  his  ease  of  body,  for  the 
journey  was  not  much  harder  than  playing  cricket 
every  day,  and  there  were  only  the  thrill  of  the  beautiful 
air,  the  new  people,  and  the  new  scenes  to  rouse  him. 
As  yet  there  was  no  great  responsibility.  He  scarcely 
realized  what  his  life  must  be  until  one  particular  day. 

Then  Sleeping  Beauty  waked  wide  up,  and  from  that 
day  lost  the  name.  Till  then  he  had  looked  and  borne 
himself  like  any  other  traveller,  unrecognized  as  a 
parson  or  "mikonaree."  He  had  not  had  prayers  in 
camp  en  route,  he  had  not  preached,  he  had  held  no 
meetings.  He  was  as  yet  William  Rufus  Holly,  the 
cricketer,  the  laziest  dreamer  of  a  college  decade.  His 
religion  was  simple  and  practical;  he  had  never  had 
any  morbid  ideas;  he  had  lived  a  healthy,  natural,  and 
honorable  life,  until  he  went  for  a  mikonaree,  and,  if  he 
had  no  cant,  he  had  not  a  clear  idea  of  how  many-sided, 
how  responsible,  his  life  must  be — until  that  one  partic- 
ular day. 

This  is  what  happened  then. 

From  Fort  O'Call,  an  abandoned  post  of  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company  on  the  Peace  River,  nearly  the  whole 
tribe  of  the  Athabasca  Indians  in  possession  of  the 
post  now  had  come  up  the  river,  with  their  chief,  Knife- 
in-the-Wind,  to  meet  the  mikonaree.  Factors  of  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company,  coureurs  de  bois,  and  voyageurs 
had  come  among  them  at  times,  and  once  the  renowned 
Father  Lacombe,  the  Jesuit  priest,  had  stayed  with  them 
three  months;  but  never  to  this  day  had  they  seen  a 
Protestant  mikonaree,  though  once  a  factor,  noted  for 
his  furious  temper,  his  powers  of  running,  and  his 
generosity,  had  preached  to  them.     These  men,  how- 

221 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

ever,  were  both  over  fifty  years  old.  The  Athabascas 
did  not  hunger  for  the  Christian  reHgion,  but  a  courier 
from  Edmonton  had  brought  them  word  that  a  miko- 
naree  was  coming  to  their  country  to  stay,  and  they  put 
off  their  stoical  manner  and  allowed  themselves  the  lux- 
ury of  curiosity.  That  was  why  even  the  squaws  and 
papooses  came  up  the  river  with  the  braves,  all  wonder- 
ing if  the  stranger  had  brought  gifts  with  him,  all  eager 
for  their  shares;  for  it  had  been  said  by  the  courier  of 
the  tribe  that  "Oshondonto,"  their  name  for  the  new- 
comer, was  bringing  mysterious  loads  of  well-wrapped 
bales  and  skins.  Upon  a  point  below  the  first  rapids 
of  the  Little  Manitou  they  waited  with  their  camp-fires 
burning  and  their  pipe  of  peace. 

When  the  canoes  bearing  Oshondonto  and  his  voyageurs 
shot  the  rapids  to  the  song  of  the  river, 

"En  roulant,  ma  boule  roulant, 
En  roulant,  ma  boule/" 

with  the  shrill  voices  of  the  boatmen  rising  to  meet  the 
cry  of  the  startled  water-fowl,  the  Athabascas  crowded 
to  the  high  banks.  They  grunted  "How!"  in  greeting, 
as  the  foremost  canoe  made  for  the  shore. 

But  if  surprise  could  have  changed  the  countenances 
of  Indians,  these  Athabascas  would  not  have  known 
one  another  when  the  missionary  stepped  out  upon  the 
shore.  They  had  looked  to  see  a  gray-bearded  man 
like  the  chief  factor  who  quarrelled  and  prayed;  but 
they  found  instead  a  round-faced,  clean-shaven  youth, 
with  big,  good-natured  eyes,  yellow  hair,  and  a  round- 
ness of  body  like  that  of  a  month-old  bear's  cub.  They 
expected  to  find  a  man  who,  like  the  factor,  could  speak 
their  language,  and  they  found  a  cherub  sort  of  youth 
who  talked  only  English,  French,  and  Chinook  —  that 
common  language  of  the  North — and  a  few  words  of 
their  own  language  which  he  had  learned  on  the  way. 

222 


A  MAN,  A  FAMINE,  AND  A  HEATHEN  BOY 

Besides,  Oshondonto  was  so  absent-minded  at  the 
moment,  so  absorbed  in  admiration  of  the  garish  scene 
before  him,  that  he  addressed  the  chief  in  French,  of 
which  Knife-in-the-Wind  knew  but  one  word,  cache, 
which  all  the  North  knows. 

But  presently  William  Rufus  Holly  recovered  himself, 
and  in  stumbling  Chinook  made  himself  understood. 
Opening  a  bale,  he  brought  out  beads  and  tobacco  and 
some  bright  red  flannel,  and  two  hundred  Indians  sat 
round  him  and  grunted  "How!"  and  received  his  gifts 
with  little  comment.  Then  the  pipe  of  peace  went 
round,  and  Oshondonto  smoked  it  becomingly. 

But  he  saw  that  the  Indians  despised  him  for  his 
youth,  his  fatness,  his  yellow  hair  as  soft  as  a  girl's,  his 
cnerub  face,  browned  though  it  was  by  the  sun  and 
weather. 

As  he  handed  the  pipe  to  Knife-in-the-Wind,  an 
Indian  called  Silver  Tassel,  with  a  cruel  face,  said,  grimly : 

"Why  does  Oshondonto  travel  to  us?" 

William  Rufus  Holly's  eyes  steadied  on  those  of  the 
Indian  as  he  replied  in  Chinook:  "To  teach  the  way 
to  Manitou  the  Mighty,  to  tell  the  Athabascas  of  the 
Great  Chief  who  died  to  save  the  world." 

"The  story  is  told  in  many  ways;  which  is  right? 
There  was  the  factor.  Word  of  Thunder.  There  is  the 
song  they  sing  at  Edmonton — I  have  heard." 

"The  Great  Chief  is  the  same  Chief,"  answered  the 
missionary.  "  If  you  tell  of  Fort  O'Call,  and  Knife-in- 
the-Wind  tells  of  Fort  O'Call,  he  and  you  will  speak 
different  words,  and  one  will  put  in  one  thing  and  one 
will  leave  out  another;  men's  tongues  are  different. 
But  Fort  O'Call  is  the  same,  and  the  Great  Chief  is  the 
same." 

"It  was  a  long  time  ago,"  said  Knife-in-the-Wind, 
sourly,  "many  thousand  moon,  as  the  pebbles  in  the 
river,  the  years," 

223 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"  It  is  the  same  world,  and  it  is  the  same  Chief,  and 
it  was  to  save  us,"  answered  William  Rufus  Holly, 
smiling,  yet  with  a  fluttering  heart,  for  the  first  test  of 
his  life  had  come. 

In  anger  Knife-in-the-Wind  thrust  an  arrow  into  the 
ground  and  said: 

"  How  can  the  white  man  who  died  thousands  of 
moons  ago  in  a  far  country  save  the  red  man  of  to-day  ? " 

"A  strong  man  should  bear  so  weak  a  tale,"  broke 
in  Silver  Tassel,  ruthlessly.  "  Are  we  children,  that  the 
Great  Chief  sends  a  child  as  messenger?" 

For  a  moment  Billy  Rufus  did  not  know  how  to 
reply,  and  in  the  pause  Knife-in-the-Wind  broke  in  two 
pieces  the  arrow  he  had  thrust  in  the  ground  in  token  of 
displeasure. 

Suddenly,  as  Oshondonto  was  about  to  speak,  Silver 
Tassel  sprang  to  his  feet,  seized  in  his  arms  a  lad  of 
twelve  who  was  standing  near,  and,  running  to  the  bank, 
dropped  him  into  the  swift  current. 

"  If  Oshondonto  be  not  a  child,  let  him  save  the 
lad,"  said  Silver  Tassel,  standing  on  the  brink. 

Instantly  William  Rufus  Holly  was  on  his  feet.  His 
coat  was  off  before  Silver  Tassel's  words  were  out  of 
his  mouth,  and,  crying,  "  In  the  name  of  the  Great 
White  Chief!"  he  jumped  into  the  rushing  current. 
"  In  the  name  of  your  Manitou,  come  on.  Silver  Tassel!" 
he  called  up  from  the  water,  and  struck  out  for  the  lad. 

Not  pausing  an  instant,  Silver  Tassel  sprang  into  the 
flood,  into  the  whirling  eddies  and  dangerous  current 
below  the  first  rapids  and  above  the  second. 


II 

Then  came  the  struggle  for  Wingo  of  the  Cree  tribe, 
a  waif  among  the  Athabascas,  whose  father  had  been 

224 


A  MAN,  A  FAMINE,  AND  A  HEATHEN   BOY 

slain  as  they  travelled,  by  a  wandering  tribe  of  Blackfeet. 
Never  was  there  a  braver  rivalry,  although  the  odds  were 
with  the  Indian — in  lightness,  in  brutal  strength.  With 
the  mikonaree,  however,  were  skill,  and  that  sort  of 
strength  which  the  world  calls  "  moral,"  the  strength  of  a 
good  and  desperate  purpose.  Oshondonto  knew  that  on 
the  issue  of  this  shameless  business — this  cruel  sport  of 
Silver  Tassel  —  would  depend  his  future  on  the  Peace 
River.  As  he  shot  forward  with  strong  strokes  in  the 
whirling  torrent  after  the  helpless  lad,  who,  only  able 
to  keep  himself  afloat,  was  being  swept  down  toward 
the  rapids  below,  he  glanced  up  to  the  bank  along  which 
the  Athabascas  were  running.  He  saw  the  garish 
colors  of  their  dresses;  he  saw  the  ignorant  medicine- 
man, with  his  mysterious  bag,  making  incantations; 
he  saw  the  tepee  of  the  chief,  with  its  barbarous  pennant 
above;  he  saw  the  idle,  naked  children  tearing  at  the 
entrails  of  a  calf;  and  he  realized  that  this  was  a  deadly 
tournament  between  civilization  and  barbarism. 

Silver  Tassel  was  gaining  on  him;  they  were  both 
overhauling  the  boy;  it  was  now  to  see  which  should 
reach  Wingo  first,  which  should  take  him  to  shore. 
That  is,  if  both  were  not  carried  under  before  they 
reached  him;  that  is,  if,  having  reached  him,  they  and 
he  would  ever  get  to  shore;  for,  lower  down,  before  it 
reached  the  rapids,  the  current  ran  horribly  smooth  and 
strong,  and  here  and  there  were  jagged  rocks  just 
beneath  the  surface. 

Still  Silver  Tassel  gained  on  him,  as  they  both  gained 
on  the  boy.  Oshondonto  swam  strong  and  hard,  but 
he  swam  with  his  eyes  on  the  struggle  for  the  shore  also ; 
he  was  not  putting  forth  his  utmost  strength,  for  he 
knew  it  would  be  bitterly  needed,  perhaps  to  save  his 
own  life  by  a  last  effort. 

Silver  Tassel  passed  him  when  they  were  about  fifty 
feet  from  the  boy.     Shooting  by  on  his  side,  with  a 

225 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

long  stroke  and  a  plunge  of  his  body  like  a  projectile, 
the  dark  face  with  the  long,  black  hair  plastering  it 
turned  toward  his  own,  in  fierce  triumph  Silver  Tassel 
cried  "How!"  in  derision. 

Billy  Rufus  set  his  teeth  and  lay  down  to  his  work 
like  a  sportsman.  His  face  had  lost  its  roses,  and  it 
was  set  and  determined,  but  there  was  no  look  of  fear 
upon  it,  nor  did  his  heart  sink  when  a  cry  of  triumph 
went  up  from  the  crowd  on  the  banks.  The  white  man 
knew  by  old  experience  in  the  cricket-field  and  in  many 
a  boat-race  that  it  is  well  not  to  halloo  till  you  are  out 
of  the  woods.  His  mettle  was  up,  he  was  not  the 
Reverend  William  Rufus  Holly,  missionary,  but  Billy 
Rufus,  the  champion  cricketer,  the  sportsman  playing 
a  long  game. 

Silver  Tassel  reached  the  boy,  who  was  bruised  and 
bleeding  and  at  his  last  gasp,  and,  throwing  an  arm 
round  him,  struck  out  for  the  shore.  The  current  was 
very  strong,  and  he  battled  fiercely  as  Billy  Rufus,  not 
far  above,  moved  down  toward  them  at  an  angle.  For 
a  few  yards  Silver  Tassel  was  going  strong,  then  his 
pace  slackened,  he  seemed  to  sink  lower  in  the  water, 
and  his  stroke  became  splashing  and  irregular.  Sud- 
denly he  struck  a  rock,  which  bruised  him  badly,  and, 
swerving  from  his  course,  he  lost  his  stroke  and  let  go 
the  boy. 

By  this  time  the  mikonaree  had  swept  beyond  them, 
and  he  caught  the  boy  by  his  long  hair  as  he  was  being 
swept  below.  Striking  out  for  the  shore,  he  swam  with 
bold,  strong  strokes,  his  judgment  guiding  him  well  past 
rocks  beneath  the  surface.  Ten  feet  from  shore  he 
heard  a  cry  of  alarm  from  above.  It  concerned  Silver 
Tassel,  he  knew,  but  he  could  not  look  round  yet. 

In  another  moment  the  boy  was  dragged  up  the  bank 
by  strong  hands,  and  Billy  Rufus  swung  round  in  the 
water  toward  Silver  Tassel,  who,  in  his  confused  energy, 

226 


A  MAN,  A  FAMINE,  AND  A  HEATHEN   BOY 

had  struck  another  rock,  and,  exhausted  now,  was  be- 
ing swept  toward  the  rapids.  Silver  Tassel's  shoulder 
scarcely  showed  —  his  strength  was  gone.  In  a  flash 
Billy  Rufus  saw  there  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  He 
must  run  the  rapids  with  Silver  Tassel — there  was  no 
other  way.  It  would  be  a  fight  through  the  jaws  of 
death;  but  no  Indian's  eyes  had  a  better  sense  for  river- 
life  than  William  Rufus  Holly's. 

How  he  reached  Silver  Tassel,  and  drew  the  Indian's 
arm  over  his  own  shoulder;  how  they  drove  down  into 
the  boiling  flood;  how  Billy  Rufus'  fat  body  was  bat- 
tered and  torn  and  ran  red  with  blood  from  twenty 
flesh  wounds;  but  how  by  luck  beyond  the  telling  he 
brought  Silver  Tassel  through  safely  into  the  quiet 
water  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below  the  rapids,  and  was 
hauled  out,  both  more  dead  than  alive,  is  a  tale  still 
told  by  the  Athabascas  around  their  camp-fire.  The 
rapids  are  known  to-day  as  the  Mikonaree  Rapids. 

The  end  of  this  beginning  of  the  young  man's  career 
was  that  Silver  Tassel  gave  him  the  word  of  eternal 
friendship,  Knife-in-the- Wind  took  him  into  the  tribe,  and 
the  boy  Wingo  became  his  very  own,  to  share  his  home 
and  his    travels,  no  longer  a  waif  among  the  Athabascas. 

After  three  days'  feasting,  at  the  end  of  which  the 
missionary  held  his  first  service  and  preached  his  first 
sermon,  to  the  accompaniment  of  grunts  of  satisfac- 
tion from  the  whole  tribe  of  Athabascas,  William  Rufus 
Holly  began  his  work  in  the  Far  North. 

The  journey  to  Fort  O'Call  was  a  procession  of 
triumph,  for,  as  it  was  summer,  there  was  plenty  of 
food,  the  missionary  had  been  a  success,  and  he  had 
distributed  many  gifts  of  beads  and  flannel. 

All  went  well  for  many  moons,  although  converts 
were  uncertain  and  baptisms  few,  and  the  work  was 
hard  and  the  loneliness  at  times  terrible.  But  at  last 
came  dark  days. 

i6  227 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

One  summer  and  autumn  there  had  been  poor  fishing 
and  shooting,  the  caches  of  meat  were  fewer  on  the 
plains,  and  almost  nothing  had  come  up  to  Fort  O'Call 
from  Edmonton,  far  below.  The  yearly  supplies  for 
the  missionary,  paid  for  out  of  his  private  income — the 
bacon,  beans,  tea,  coffee,  and  flour — had  been  raided  by 
a  band  of  hostile  Indians,  and  he  viewed  with  deep 
concern  the  progress  of  the  severe  winter.  Although 
three  years  of  hard,  frugal  life  had  made  his  muscles 
like  iron,  they  had  only  mellowed  his  temper,  increased 
his  flesh,  and  rounded  his  face;  nor  did  he  look  an  hour 
older  than  on  the  day  when  he  had  won  Wingo  for  his 
willing  slave  and  devoted  friend. 

He  never  resented  the  frequent  ingratitude  of  the 
Indians;  he  said  little  when  they  quarrelled  over  the 
small  comforts  his  little  income  brought  them  yearly 
from  the  South.  He  had  been  doctor,  lawyer,  judge 
among  them,  although  he  interfered  little  in  the  larger 
disputes,  and  was  forced  to  shut  his  eyes  to  intertribal 
enmities.  He  had  no  deep  faith  that  he  could  quite 
civilize  them;  he  knew  that  their  conversion  was  only 
on  the  surface,  and  he  fell  back  on  his  personal  influence 
with  them.  By  this  he  could  check  even  the  excesses 
of  the  worst  man  in  the  tribe,  his  old  enemy.  Silver 
Tassel  of  the  bad  heart,  who  yet  was  ready  always  to 
give  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  and  accepted  the  fact  that  he 
owed  Oshondonto  his  life. 

When  famine  crawled  across  the  plains  to  the  doors 
of  the  settlement  and  housed  itself  at  Fort  O'Call,  Silver 
Tassel  acted  badly,  however,  and  sowed  fault-finding 
among  the  thoughtless  of  the  tribe. 

"  What  manner  of  Great  Spirit  is  it  who  lets  the  food 
of  his  chief  Oshondonto  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Black- 
feet?"  he  said.  "Oshondonto  says  the  Great  Spirit 
hears.  What  has  the  Great  Spirit  to  say  ?  Let  Oshon- 
donto ask." 

228 


A  MAN,  A  FAMINE,  AND  A  HEATHEN  BOY 

Again,  when  they  were  all  hungrier,  he  went  among 
them  with  complaining  words.  "  If  the  white  man's 
Great  Spirit  can  do  all  things,  let  him  give  Oshondonto 
and  the  Athabascas  food." 

The  missionary  did  not  know  of  Silver  Tassel's  foolish 
words,  but  he  saw  the  downcast  face  of  Knife-in-the- 
Wind,  the  sullen  looks  of  the  people;  and  he  unpacked 
the  box  he  had  reserved  jealously  for  the  darkest  days 
that  might  come.  For  meal  after  meal  he  divided  these 
delicacies  among  them — morsels  oi  biscuit,  and  tinned 
meats,  and  dried  fruits.  But  his  eyes  meanwhile  were 
turned  again  and  again  to  the  storm  raging  without,  as 
it  had  raged  for  this  the  longest  week  he  had  ever  spent. 
If  it  would  but  slacken,  a  boat  could  go  out  to  the  nets 
set  in  the  lake  near  by  some  days  before,  when  the  sun 
of  spring  had  melted  the  ice.  From  the  hour  the  nets 
had  been  set  the  storm  had  raged.  On  the  day  when 
the  last  morsel  of  meat  and  biscuit  had  been  given  away 
the  storm  had  not  abated,  and  he  saw  with  misgiving 
the  gloomy,  stolid  faces  of  the  Indians  round  him. 
One  man,  two  children,  and  three  women  had  died  in 
a  fortnight.  He  dreaded  to  think  what  might  happen, 
his  heart  ached  at  the  looks  of  gaunt  suffering  in  the 
faces  of  all;  he  saw,  for  the  first  time,  how  black  and 
bitter  Knife-in-the-Wind  looked  as  Silver  Tassel  whis- 
pered to  him. 

With  the  color  all  gone  from  his  cheeks,  he  left  the 
post  and  made  his  way  to  the  edge  of  the  lake  where 
his  canoe  was  kept.  Making  it  ready  for  the  launch,  he 
came  back  to  the  fort.  Assembling  the  Indians,  who 
had  watched  his  movements  closely,  he  told  them  that 
he  was  going  through  the  storm  to  the  nets  on  the  lake, 
and  asked  for  a  volunteer  to  go  with  him. 

No  one  replied.  He  pleaded  —  for  the  sake  of  the 
women  and  children. 

Then  Knife-in-the-Wind  spoke.     "  Oshondonto  will  die 

229 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

if  he  goes.  It  is  a  fool's  journey — does  the  wolverine 
walk  into  an  empty  trap?" 

Billy  Rufus  spoke  passionately  now.  His  genial  spirit 
fled;  he  reproached  them. 

Silver  Tassel  spoke  up  loudly:  "Let  Oshondonto's 
Great  Spirit  carry  him  to  the  nets  alone,  and  back  again 
with  fish  for  the  heathen  the  Great  Chief  died  to  save." 

"  You  have  a  wicked  heart,  Silver  Tassel.  You  know 
well  that  one  man  can't  handle  the  boat  and  the  nets 
also.     Is  there  no  one  of  you — ?" 

A  figure  shot  forward  from  a  corner.  "  I  will  go  with 
Oshondonto,"  came  the  voice  of  Wingo,  the  waif  of  the 
Crees. 

The  eye  of  the  mikonaree  flashed  round  in  contempt 
on  the  tribe.  Then  suddenly  it  softened,  and  he  said 
to  the  lad,  "We  will  go  together,  Wingo." 

Taking  the  boy  by  the  hand,  he  ran  with  him  through 
the  rough  wind  to  the  shore,  launched  the  canoe  on  the 
tossing  lake,  and  paddled  away  through  the  tempest. 

The  bitter  winds  of  an  angry  spring,  the  sleet  and 
wet  snow  of  a  belated  winter,  the  floating  blocks  of  ice 
crushing  against  the  side  of  the  boat,  the  black  water 
swishing  over  man  and  boy,  the  harsh,  inclement  world 
near  and  far.  .  .  .  The  passage  made  at  last  to  the  nets; 
the  brave  Wingo  steadying  the  canoe — a  skilful  hand 
sufficing  where  the  strength  of  a  Samson  would  not  have 
availed;  the  nets  half  full,  and  the  breaking  cry  of  joy 
from  the  lips  of  the  waif — a  cry  that  pierced  the  storm 
and  brought  back  an  answering  cry  from  the  crowd  of 
Indians  on  the  far  shore.  .  .  .  The  quarter-hour  of  danger 
in  the  tossing  canoe;  the  nets  too  heavy  to  be  dragged, 
and  fastened  to  the  thwarts  instead;  the  canoe  going 
shoreward  jerkily,  a  cork  on  the  waves  with  an  anchor 
behind;  heavier  seas  and  winds  roaring  down  on  them 
as  they  slowly  near  the  shore;  and  at  last,  in  one  awful 

230 


A  MAN,  A  FAMINE,  AND  A  HEATHEN   BOY 

moment,  the  canoe  upset,  and  the  man  and  the  boy  in 
the  water.  .  .  .  Then  both  clinging  to  the  upturned 
canoe  as  it  is  driven  near  and  nearer  shore.  .  .  .  The 
boy  washed  ofif  once,  twice,  and  the  man  with  his  arm 
round  chnging — cHnging,  as  the  shrieking  storm  answers 
to  the  calhng  of  the  Athabascas  on  the  shore,  and 
drives  craft  and  fish  and  man  and  boy  down  upon  the 
banks;  no  savage  bold  enough  to  plunge  in  to  their 
rescue.  ...  At  last  a  rope  thrown,  a  drowning  man's 
wrists  wound  round  it,  his  teeth  set  in  it — and  now,  at 
last,  a  man  and  a  heathen  boy,  both  insensible,  being 
carried  to  the  mikonaree's  hut  and  laid  upon  two  beds, 
one  on  either  side  of  the  small  room,  as  the  red  sun 
goes  slowly  down.  .  .  .  The  two  still  bodies  on  bear- 
skins in  the  hut,  and  a  hundred  superstitious  Indians 
flying  from  the  face  of  death.  .  .  .  The  two  alone  in  the 
light  of  the  flickering  fire;  the  many  gone  to  feast  on 
fish,  the  price  of  lives. 

But  the  price  was  not  yet  paid,  for  the  man  waked 
from  insensibility — waked  to  see  himself  with  the  body 
of  the  boy  beside  him  in  the  red  light  of  the  fires. 

For  a  moment  his  heart  stopped  beating,  he  turned 
sick  and  faint.  Deserted  by  those  for  whom  he  risked 
his  life!  .  .  .  How  long  had  he  lain  there?  What  time 
was  it?  When  was  it  that  he  had  fought  his  way  to 
the  nets  and  back  again  —  hours,  maybe  ?  And  the 
dead  boy  there,  Wingo,  who  had  risked  his  life,  also 
dead  —  how  long?  His  heart  leaped  —  ah,  not  hours, 
only  minutes,  maybe.  It  was  sundown  as  unconscious- 
ness came  on  him  —  Indians  would  not  stay  with  the 
dead  after  sundown.  Maybe  it  was  only  ten  minutes — 
five  minutes — one  minute  ago  since  they  left  him!  .  .  . 

His  watch!  Shaking  fingers  drew  it  out,  wild  eyes 
scanned  it.  It  was  not  stopped.  Then  it  could  have 
only  been  minutes  ago.  Trembling  to  his  feet,  he 
staggered  over  to  Wingo,  he  felt  the  body,  he  held  a 

231 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

mirror  to  the  lips.  Yes,  surely  there  was  light  moisture 
on  the  glass. 

Then  began  another  fight  with  death — William  Rufus 
Holly  struggling  to  bring  to  life  again  Wingo,  the  waif  of 
of  the  Crees. 

The  blood  came  back  to  his  own  heart  with  a  rush  as 
the  mad  desire  to  save  this  life  came  on  him.  He 
talked  to  the  dumb  face,  he  prayed  in  a  kind  of  delirium, 
as  he  moved  the  arms  up  and  down,  as  he  tilted  the 
body,  as  he  rubbed,  chafed,  and  strove.  He  forgot  he 
was  a  missionary,  he  almost  cursed  himself.  "  For 
them — for  cowards,  I  risked  his  life,  the  brave  lad 
with  no  home!  Oh,  God!  give  him  back  to  me! "he 
sobbed.  "What  right  had  I  to  risk  his  life  for  theirs? 
I  should  have  shot  the  first  man  that  refused  to  go.  .  .  . 
Wingo,  speak!     Wake  up!     Come  back!" 

The  sweat  poured  from  him  in  his  desperation  and 
weakness.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  had  put  this 
young  life  into  hazard  without  cause.  Had  he,  then, 
saved  the  lad  from  the  rapids  and  Silver  Tassel's  brutality 
only  to  have  him  drag  fish  out  of  the  jaws  of  death 
for  Silver  Tassel's  meal? 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  working  for  hours, 
though  it  was  in  fact  only  a  short  time,  when  the  eyes 
of  the  lad  slowly  opened  and  closed  again,  and  he 
began  to  breathe  spasmodically.  A  cry  of  joy  came 
from  the  lips  of  the  missionary,  and  he  worked  harder 
still.  At  last  the  eyes  opened  wide,  stayed  open,  saw 
the  figure  bent  over  him,  and  the  lips  whispered,  "  Oshon- 
donto — my  master!"  as  a  cup  of  brandy  was  held  to  his 
lips. 

Billy  Rufus  the  cricketer  had  won  the  game,  and 
somehow  the  Reverend  William  Rufus  Holly  the 
missionary  never  repented  the  strong  language  he 
used  against  the  Athabascas  as  he  was  biinging  Wingo 

232 


A  MAN,  A  FAMINE,  AND  A  HEATHEN  BOY 

back  to  life,  though  it  was  not  what  is  called  "strictly 
canonical." 

He  had  conquered  the  Athabascas  forever.  Even 
Silver  Tassel  acknowledged  his  power,  and  he  as  in- 
dustriously spread  abroad  the  report  that  the  mikonaree 
had  raised  Wingo  from  the  dead  as  he  had  sown  dis- 
sension during  the  famine.  But  the  result  was  that 
the  missionary  had  power  in  the  land,  and  the  belief 
in  him  was  so  great  that,  when  Knife-in-the-Wind  died, 
the  tribe  came  to  him  to  raise  their  chief  from  the 
dead.  They  never  quite  believed  that  he  could  not — 
not  even  Silver  Tassel,  who  now  rules  the  Athabascas 
and  is  ruled  in  turn  by  William  Rufus  Holly:  which 
is  a  very  good  thing  for  the  Athabascas. 


THE    HEALING    SPRINGS    AND    THE 
PIONEERS 

He  came  out  of  the  mysterious  South  one  summer 
day,  driving  before  him  a  few  sheep,  a  cow,  and  a  long- 
eared  mule  which  carried  his  tent  and  other  necessaries, 
and  camped  outside  the  town  on  a  knoll,  at  the  base 
of  which  was  a  thicket  of  close  shrub.  During  the 
first  day  no  one  in  Jansen  thought  anything  of  it,  for  it 
was  a  land  of  pilgrimage,  and  hundreds  came  and  went  on 
their  journeys  in  search  of  free  homesteads  and  good 
water  and  pasturage.  But  when,  after  three  days,  he 
was  still  there,  Nicolle  Terasse,  who  had  little  to  do  and 
an  insatiable  curiosity,  went  out  to  see  him.  He  found 
a  new  sensation  for  Jansen.  This  is  what  he  said  when 
he  came  back: 

"You  want  know  'bout  him,  hagosh!  Dat  is  some- 
t'ing  to  see,  dat  man — Ingles  is  his  name.  Sooch  hair 
— mooch  long  an'  brown,  and  a  leetla  beard  not  so 
brown,  an'  a  leather  sole  onto  his  feet,  and  a  gray  coat 
to  his  ankles — oui,  so  like  dat.  An'  his  voice — voila, 
it  is  like  water  in  a  cave.  He  is  a  great  man — I  dunno 
not;  but  he  spik  at  me  like  dis,  '  Is  dere  sick,  and  cripple, 
and  stay-in-bed  people  here  dat  can't  get  up  ? '  he  say. 
An'  I  say,  '  Not  plenty,  but  some — hagosh!  Dere  is  dat 
Miss  Greet,  an'  ole  Ma'am  Drouchy,  an'  dat  young 
Pete  Hayes — an'  so  on.'  'Well,  if  they  have  faith  I 
will  heal  them,'  he  spik  at  me.  '  From  de  Healing 
Springs  dey  shall  rise  to  walk,'  he  say.  Bagosh,  you  not 
t'ink  dat  true?     Den  you  go  see." 

234 


HEALING    SPRINGS    AND    PIONEERS 

So  Jansen  turned  out  to  see,  and  besides  the  man 
they  found  a  curious  thing.  At  the  foot  of  the  knoll,  in 
a  space  which  he  had  cleared,  was  a  hot  spring  that 
bubbled  and  rose  and  sank,  and  drained  away  into  the 
thirsty  ground.  Luck  had  been  with  Ingles  the  Faith 
Healer.  Whether  he  knew  of  the  existence  of  this 
spring,  or  whether  he  chanced  upon  it,  he  did  not  say; 
but  while  he  held  Jansen  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  in 
the  feverish  days  that  followed,  there  were  many  who 
attached  mysterious  significance  to  it,  who  claimed  for  it 
supernatural  origin.  In  any  case,  the  one  man  who  had 
known  of  the  existence  of  this  spring  was  far  away  from 
Jansen,  and  he  did  not  return  till  a  day  of  reckoning 
came  for  the  Faith  Healer. 

Meanwhile,  Jansen  made  pilgrimage  to  the  Springs 
of  Healing,  and  at  unexpected  times  Ingles  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  town,  and  stood  at  street  corners;  and 
in  his  "  Patmian  voice,"  as  Flood  Rawley  the  lawyer 
called  it,  warned  the  people  to  flee  their  sins,  and,  pu- 
rifying their  hearts,  learn  to  cure  all  ills  of  mind  and 
body,  the  weaknesses  of  the  sinful  flesh  and  the  "  ancient 
evil"  in  their  souls,  by  faith  that  saves. 

'"Is  -not  the  life  more  than  -nieat?'"  he  asked  them. 
"  And  if,  peradventure,  there  be  those  among  you  who 
have  true  belief  in  hearts  all  purged  of  evil,  and  yet  are 
maimed,  or  sick  of  body,  come  to  me,  and  I  will  lay  my 
hands  upon  you,  and  I  will  heal  you."     Thus  he  cried. 

There  were  those  so  wrought  upon  by  his  strange 
eloquence  and  spiritual  passion,  so  hypnotized  by  his 
physical  and  mental  exaltation,  that  they  rose  up  from 
the  hand-laying  and  the  prayer  eased  of  their  ailments. 
Others  he  called  upon  to  lie  in  the  hot  spring  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill  for  varying  periods,  before  the  laying-on  of 
hands,  and  these  also,  crippled  or  rigid  with  troubles  of 
the  bone,  announced  that  they  were  healed. 

People  flocked  from  other  towns,  and  though,  to  some 

235 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

who  had  been  cured,  their,  pains  and  sickness  returned, 
there  were  a  few  who  bore  perfect  evidence  to  his  teach- 
ing and  healing,  and  followed  him,  "  converted  and  con- 
secrated," as  though  he  were  a  new  Messiah.  In  this 
corner  of  the  West  was  such  a  revival  as  none  could 
remember  —  not  even  those  who  had  been  to  camp- 
meetings  in  the  East  in  their  youth,  and  had  seen  the 
Spirit  descend  upon  hundreds  and  draw  them  to  the 
anxious  seat. 

Then  came  the  great  sensation  —  the  Faith  Healer 
converted  Laura  Sloly.  Upon  which  Jansen  drew  its 
breath  painfully;  for,  while  it  was  willing  to  bend  to  the 
inspiration  of  the  moment,  and  to  be  swept  on  a  tide  of 
excitement  into  that  enchanted  field  called  Imagination, 
it  wanted  to  preserve  its  institutions — and  Laura  Sloly 
had  come  to  be  an  institution.  Jansen  had  always 
plumed  itself,  and  smiled,  when  she  passed;  and  even 
now  the  most  sentimentally  religious  of  them  inwardly 
anticipated  the  time  when  the  town  would  return  to  its 
normal  condition;  and  that  condition  would  not  be 
normal  if  there  were  any  change  in  Laura  Sloly.  It 
mattered  little  whether  most  people  were  changed  or 
not,  because  one  state  of  their  minds  could  not  be  less 
or  more  interesting  than  another ;  but  a  change  in  Laura 
Sloly  could  not  be  for  the  better. 

Her  father  had  come  to  the  West  in  the  early  days, 
and  had  prospered  by  degrees  until  a  town  grew  up 
beside  his  ranch;  and  though  he  did  not  acquire  as 
much  permanent  wealth  from  this  golden  chance  as 
might  have  been  expected,  and  lost  much  he  did  make 
by  speculation,  still  he  had  his  rich  ranch  left,  and  it 
and  he  and  Laura  were  part  of  the  history  of  Jansen. 
Laura  had  been  born  at  Jansen  before  even  it  had 
a  name.  Next  to  her  father  she  was  the  oldest  inhab- 
itant, and  she  had  a  prestige  which  was  given  to  no 
one  else. 

236 


H 
I 

m 
> 


I 
m 
> 

r 
m 

71 


HEALING    SPRINGS    AND    PIONEERS 

Everything  had  conspired  to  make  her  a  figure  of 
moment  and  interest.  She  was  handsome  in  almost  a 
mannish  sort  of  way,  being  of  such  height  and  straight- 
ness,  and  her  brown  eyes  had  a  depth  and  fire  in  which 
more  than  a  few  men  had  drowned  themselves.  Also, 
once  she  had  saved  a  settlement  by  riding  ahead  of  a 
marauding  Indian  band  to  warn  their  intended  victims, 
and  had  averted  another  tragedy  of  pioneer  life. 
Pioneers  proudly  told  strangers  to  Jansen  of  the  girl 
of  thirteen  who  rode  a  hundred  and  twenty  miles 
without  food,  and  sank  inside  the  palisade  of  the  Hud- 
son Bay  Company's  fort,  as  the  gates  closed  upon 
the  settlers  taking  refuge,  the  victim  of  brain  fever  at 
last.  Cerebrospinal  meningitis,  the  doctor  from  Winni- 
peg called  it,  and  the  memory  of  that  time  when  men 
and  women  would  not  sleep  till  her  crisis  was  past  was 
still  fresh  on  the  tongues  of  all. 

Then  she  had  married  at  seventeen,  and,  within  a 
year,  had  lost  both  her  husband  and  her  baby,  a  child 
bereaved  of  her  Playmates — for  her  husband  had  been 
but  twenty  years  old  and  was  younger  far  than  she  in 
everything.  And  since  then,  twelve  years  before,  she 
had  seen  generations  of  lovers  pass  into  the  land  they 
thought  delectable;  and  their  children  flocked  to  her, 
hung  about  her,  were  carried  off  by  her  to  the  ranch, 
and  kept  for  days,  against  the  laughing  protests  of  their 
parents.  Flood  Rawley  called  her  the  Pied  Piper  of 
Jansen,  and,  indeed,  she  had  a  voice  that  fluted  and 
piped,  and  yet  had  so  whimsical  a  note  that  the  hardest 
faces  softened  at  the  sound  of  it;  and  she  did  not  keep 
its  best  notes  for  the  few.  She  was  impartial,  almost 
impersonal;  no  woman  was  her  enemy,  and  every  man 
was  her  friend — and  nothing  more.  She  had  never 
had  an  accepted  lover  since  the  day  her  Playmates  left 
her.  Every  man  except  one  had  given  up  hope  that 
he  might  win  her;  and  though  he  had  been  gone  from 

237 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Jansen  for  two  years,  and  had  loved  her  since  the  days 
before  the  Playmates  came  and  went,  he  never  gave 
up  hope,  and  was  now  to  return  and  say  again  what  he 
had  mutely  said  for  years — what  she  understood,  and 
he  knew  she  understood. 

Tim  Denton  had  been  a  wild  sort  in  his  brief  day. 
He  was  a  rough  diamond,  but  he  was  a  diamond,  and 
was  typical  of  the  West  —  its  heart,  its  courage,  its 
freedom,  and  its  force;  capable  of  exquisite  gentleness 
strenuous  to  exaggeration,  with  a  very  primitive  religion, 
and  the  only  religion  Tim  knew  was  that  of  human 
nature.  Jansen  did  not  think  Tim  good  enough — not 
within  a  comet  shot — for  Laura  Sloly ;  but  they  thought 
him  better  than  any  one  else. 

But  now  Laura  was  a  convert  to  the  prophet  of  the 
Healing  Springs,  and  those  people  who  still  retained 
their  heads  in  the  eddy  of  religious  emotion  were  in 
despair.  They  dreaded  to  meet  Laura;  they  kept  away 
from  the  "protracted  meetings,"  but  were  eager  to  hear 
about  her  and  what  she  said  and  did.  What  they  heard 
allayed  their  worst  fears.  She  still  smiled,  and  seemed 
as  cheerful  as  before,  they  heard,  and  she  neither  spoke 
nor  prayed  in  public,  but  she  led  the  singing  always. 
Now  the  anxious  and  the  sceptical  and  the  reactionary 
ventured  out  to  see  and  hear;  and  seeing  and  hearing 
gave  them  a  satisfaction  they  hardly  dared  express. 
She  was  more  handsome  than  ever,  and  if  her  eyes 
glistened  with  a  light  they  had  never  seen  before,  and 
awed  them,  her  lips  still  smiled,  and  the  old  laugh  came 
when  she  spoke  to  them.  Their  awe  increased.  This 
was  "getting  religion"  with  a  difference. 

But  presently  they  received  a  shock.  A  whisper 
grew  that  Laura  was  in  love  with  the  Faith  Healer. 
Some  woman's  instinct  drove  straight  to  the  centre  of 
a  disconcerting  possibility,  and  in  consternation  she 
told   her  husband;  and  Jansen  husbands  had  a  free- 

238 


HEALING    SPRINGS    AND    PIONEERS 

masonry  of  gossip.  An  hour,  and  all  Jansen  knew,  or 
thought  they  knew;  and  the  "saved"  rejoiced;  and 
the  rest  of  the  population,  represented  by  Nicolle 
Terasse  at  one  end  and  Flood  Rawley  at  the  other, 
flew  to  arms.  No  vigilance  committee  was  ever  more 
determined  and  secret  and  organized  than  the  uncon- 
verted civic  patriots  who  were  determined  to  restore 
Jansen  to  its  old-time  condition.  They  pointed  out 
cold-bloodedly  that  the  Faith  Healer  had  failed  three 
times  where  he  had  succeeded  once;  and  that,  admit- 
ting the  successes,  there  was  no  proof  that  his  religion 
was  their  cause.  There  were  such  things  as  hypnotism 
and  magnetism  and  will-power,  and  abnormal  mental 
stimulus  on  the  part  of  the  healed — to  say  nothing  of 
the  Healing  Springs. 

Carefully  laying  their  plans,  they  quietly  spread  the 
rumor  that  Ingles  had  promised  to  restore  to  health 
old  Mary  Jewell,  who  had  been  bedridden  ten  years, 
and  had  sent  word  and  prayed  to  have  him  lay  his 
hands  upon  her — Catholic  though  she  was.  The  Faith 
Healer,  face  to  face  with  this  supreme  and  definite  test, 
would  have  retreated  from  it  but  for  Laura  Sloly.  She 
expected  him  to  do  it,  believed  that  he  could,  said  that 
he  would,  herself  arranged  the  day  and  the  hour,  and 
sang  so  much  exaltation  into  him  that  at  last  a  spurious 
power  seemed  to  possess  him.  He  felt  that  there  had 
entered  into  him  something  that  could  be  depended  on, 
not  the  mere  flow  of  natural  magnetism  fed  by  an 
out-door  life  and  a  temperament  of  great  emotional 
force  and  chance  and  suggestion  —  and  other  things. 
If,  at  first,  he  had  influenced  Laura,  some  ill-controlled, 
latent  idealism  in  him,  working  on  a  latent  poetry  and 
spirituality  in  her,  somehow  bringing  her  into  nearer 
touch  with  her  lost  Playmates  than  she  had  been  in  the 
long  years  that  had  passed;  she,  in  turn,  had  made  his 
unrationalized  brain  reel;  had  caught  him  up  into  a 

239 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

higher  air,  on  no  wings  of  his  own;  had  added  another 
lover  to  her  company  of  lovers — and  the  first  impostor 
she  had  ever  had.  She  who  had  known  only  honest 
men  as  friends,  in  one  blind  moment  lost  her  per- 
spicuous sense;  her  instinct  seemed  asleep.  She  be- 
lieved in  the  man  and  in  his  healing.  Was  there  any- 
thing more  than  that? 

The  day  of  the  great  test  came,  hot,  brilliant,  vivid. 
The  air  was  of  a  delicate  sharpness,  and,  as  it  came 
toward  evening,  the  glamour  of  an  August  when  the 
reapers  reap  was  upon  Jansen;  and  its  people  gathered 
round  the  house  of  Mary  Jewell  to  await  the  miracle  of 
faith.  Apart  from  the  emotional  many  who  sang  hymns 
and  spiritual  songs  were  a  few  determined  men,  bent  on 
doing  justice  to  Jansen  though  the  heavens  might  fall. 
Whether  or  no  Laura  Sloly  was  in  love  with  the  Faith 
Healer,  Jansen  must  look  to  its  own  honor — and  hers. 
In  any  case,  this  peripatetic  saint  at  Sloly's  Ranch — 
the  idea  was  intolerable;  women  must  be  saved  in  spite 
of  themselves. 

Laura  was  nov/  in  the  house  by  the  side  of  the  bed- 
ridden Mary  Jewell,  waiting,  confident,  smiling,  as  she 
held  the  wasted  hand  on  the  coverlet.  With  her  was  a 
minister  of  the  Baptist  persuasion,  who  was  swimming 
with  the  tide,  and  who  approved  of  the  Faith  Healer's 
immersions  in  the  hot  Healing  Springs;  also  a  medical 
student  who  had  pretended  belief  in  Ingles,  and  two 
women  weeping  with  unnecessary  remorse  for  human 
failings  of  no  dire  kind.  The  windows  were  open,  and 
those  outside  could  see.  Presently,  in  a  lull  of  the 
singing,  there  was  a  stir  in  the  crowd,  and  then  sudden 
loud  greetings — 

"My,  if  it  ain't  Tim  Denton!  Jerusalem!  You 
back,  Tim!" 

These  and  other  phrases  caught  the  ear  of  Laura 
Sloly    in    the    sick-room.     A    strange    looked    flashed 

240 


HEALING    SPRINGS    AND    PIONEERS 

across  her  face,  and  the  depth  of  her  eyes  was  troubled 
for  a  moment,  as  to  the  face  of  the  old  comes  a  tremor 
at  the  note  of  some  long-forgotten  song.  Then  she 
steadied  herself  and  waited,  catching  bits  of  the  loud 
talk  which  still  floated  toward  her  from  without. 

"  What's  up  ?  Some  one  getting  married — or  a  legacy, 
or  a  saw-off?  Why,  what  a  lot  of  Sunday-go-to-meeting 
folks  to  be  sure!"     Tim  laughed  loudly. 

After  which  the  quick  tongue  of  Nicolle  Terasse: 
"You  want  know?  Tiens,  be  quiet;  here  he  come.  He 
cure  you  body  and  soul,  ver'  queeck — yes." 

The  crowd  swayed  and  parted,  and  slowly,  bare  head 
uplifted,  face  looking  to  neither  right  nor  left,  the  Faith 
Healer  made  his  way  to  the  door  of  the  little  house. 
The  crowd  hushed.  Some  were  awed,  some  were 
overpoweringly  interested,  some  were  cruelly  patient. 
Nicolle  Terasse  and  others  were  whispering  loudly  to  Tim 
Denton.  That  was  the  only  sound,  until  the  Healer  got  to 
the  door.    Then,  on  the  steps,  he  turned^to  the  multitude. 

"Peace  be  to  you  all,  and  upon  this  house,"  he  said, 
and  stepped  through  the  doorway. 

Tim  Denton,  who  had  been  staring  at  the  face  of 
the  Healer,  stood  for  an  instant  like  one  with  all  his 
senses  arrested.  Then  he  gasped  and  exclaimed,  "Well, 
I'm  eternally — !"  and  broke  off  with  a  low  laugh,  which 
was  at  first  mirthful,  and  then  became  ominous  and  hard. 

"Oh,  magnificent! — magnificent! — jerickety!"  he  said 
into  the  sky  above  him. 

His  friends  who  were  not  "saved"  closed  in  on  him 
to  find  the  meaning  of  his  words,  but  he  pulled  him- 
self together,  looked  blankly  at  them,  and  asked  them 
questions.  They  told  him  so  much  more  than  he  cared 
to  hear  that  his  face  flushed  a  deep  red — the  bronze  of 
it  most  like  the  color  of  Laura  Sloly's  hair;  then  he  turned 
pale.  Men  saw  that  he  was  roused  beyond  any  feeling 
in  themselves. 

241 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"'Sh!"  he  said.  "  Let's  see  what  he  can  do."  With 
the  many  who  were  silently  praying,  as  they  had  been 
bidden  to  do,  the  invincible  ones  leaned  forward,  watch- 
ing the  little  room  where  healing  —  or  tragedy  —  was 
afoot.  As  in  a  picture,  framed  by  the  window,  they 
saw  the  kneeling  figures,  the  Healer  standing  with  out- 
stretched arms.  They  heard  his  voice,  sonorous  and 
appealing,  then  commanding — and  yet  Mary  Jewell  did 
not  rise  from  her  bed  and  walk.  Again,  and  yet  again, 
the  voice  rang  out,  and  still  the  woman  lay  motionless. 
Then  he  laid  his  hands  upon  her,  and  again  he  com- 
manded her  to  rise. 

There  was  a  faint  movement,  a  desperate  struggle  to 
obey,  but  Nature  and  Time  and  Disease  had  their  way. 

Yet  again  there  was  the  call.  An  agony  stirred  the 
bed.  Then  another  great  Healer  came  between  and 
mercifully  dealt  the  sufferer  a  blow — Death  has  a  gen- 
tle hand  sometimes.  Mary  Jewell  was  bedridden  still — 
and  forever. 

Like  a  wind  from  the  mountains  the  chill  knowledge 
of  death  wailed  through  the  window  and  over  the  heads 
of  the  crowd.  All  the  figures  were  upright  now  in  the 
little  room.  Then  those  outside  saw  Laura  Sloly  lean 
over  and  close  the  sightless  eyes.  This  done,  she  came 
to  the  door  and  opened  it,  and  motioned  for  the  Healer 
to  leave.  He  hesitated,  hearing  the  harsh  murmur  from 
the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  Once  again  she  motioned, 
and  he  came.  With  a  face  deadly  pale  she  surveyed 
the  people  before  her  silently  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  all 
huge  and  staring.  Presently  she  turned  to  Ingles  and 
spoke  to  him  quickly  in  a  low  voice;  then,  descending 
the  steps,  passed  out  through  the  lane  made  for  her  by 
the  crowd,  he  following  with  shaking  limbs  and  bowed 
head. 

Warning  words  had  passed  among  the  few  invincible 
ones  who  waited  where  the  Healer  must  pass  into  the 

242 


HEALING    SPRINGS    AND    PIONEERS 

open,  and  there  was  absolute  stillness  as  Laura  advanced. 
Their  work  was  to  come — quiet  and  swift  and  sure; 
but  not  yet. 

Only  one  face  Laura  saw  as  she  led  the  way  to  the 
moment's  safety — Tim  Denton's;  and  it  was  as  stricken 
as  her  own.  She  passed,  then  turned  and  looked  at  him 
again.     He  understood;  she  wanted  him. 

He  waited  till  she  sprang  into  her  wagon,  after  the 
Healer  had  mounted  his  mule  and  ridden  away  with 
ever-quickening  pace  into  the  prairie.  Then  he  turned 
to  the  set,  fierce  men  beside  him. 

"Leave  him  alone,"  he  said — "leave  him  to  me.  I 
know  him.  You  hear?  Ain't  I  no  rights?  I  tell  you 
I  knew  him — South.     You  leave  him  to  me." 

They  nodded,  and  he  sprang  into  his  saddle  and  rode 
away.  They  watched  the  figure  of  the  Healer  growing 
smaller  in  the  dusty  distance. 

"Tim  '11  go  to  her,"  one  said,  "and  perhaps  they'll  let 
the  snake  get  off.     Hadn't  we  best  make  sure?" 

"Perhaps  you'd  better  let  him  vamoose,"  said  Flood 
Rawley,  anxiously.     "Jansen  is  a  law-abiding  place." 

The  reply  was  decisive.     Jansen  had  its  honor  to  keep. 
It  was  the  home  of  the  Pioneers — Laura  Sloly  was  a 
Pioneer. 

Tim  Denton  was  a  Pioneer,  with  all  the  comradeship 
which  lay  in  the  word,  and  he  was  that  sort  of  lover 
who  has  seen  one  woman  and  can  never  see  another — 
not  the  product  of  the  most  modern  civilization.  Before 
Laura  had  had  Playmates  he  had  given  all  he  had  to 
give;  he  had  waited  and  hoped  ever  since;  and  when 
the  ruthless  gossips  had  said  to  him  before  Mary  Jewell's 
house  that  she  was  in  love  with  the  Faith  Healer, 
nothing  changed  in  him.  For  the  man — for  Ingles — Tim 
belonged  to  a  primitive  breed,  and  love  was  not  in  his 
heart.  As  he  rode  out  to  Sloly's  Ranch,  he  ground 
17  243 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

his  teeth  in  rage.  But  Laura  had  called  him  to  her, 
and — 

"Well,  what  you  say  goes,  Laura,"  he  muttered  at 
the  end  of  a  long  hour  of  human  passion  and  its  re- 
pression. "If  he's  to  go  scot-free,  then  he's  got  to  go; 
but  the  boys  yonder  '11  drop  on  me  if  he  gets  away. 
Can't  you  see  what  a  swab  he  is,  Laura?" 

The  brown  eyes  of  the  girl  looked  at  him  gently. 
The  struggle  between  them  was  over;  she  had  had  her 
way — to  save  the  preacher,  impostor  though  he  was; 
and  now  she  felt,  as  she  had  never  felt  before  in  the  same 
fashion,  that  this  man  was  a  man  of  men. 

"  Tim,  you  do  not  understand,"  she  urged.  "  You  say 
he  was  a  landsharp  in  the  South,  and  that  he  had  to 
leave — " 

"He  had  to  vamoose,  or  take  tar  and  feathers." 

"  But  he  had  to  leave.  And  he  came  here  preaching 
and  healing;  and  he  is  a  hypocrite  and  a  fraud — I 
know  that  now,  my  eyes  are  opened.  He  didn't  do 
what  he  said  he  could  do,  and  it  killed  Mary  Jewell— 
the  shock;  and  there  were  other  things  he  said  he  could 
do,  and  didn't  do  them.  Perhaps  he  is  all  bad,  as  you 
say — I  don't  think  so.  But  he  did  some  good  things, 
and  through  him  I've  felt  as  I've  never  felt  before  about 
God  and  life,  and  about  Walt  and  the  baby — as  though 
I'll  see  them  again,  sure.  I've  never  felt  that  before. 
It  was  all  as  if  they  were  lost  in  the  hills,  and  no  trail 
home,  or  out  to  where  they  are.  Like  as  not  God  was 
working  in  him  all  the  time,  Tim;  and  he  failed  because 
he  counted  too  much  on  the  little  he  had,  and  made 
up  for  what  he  hadn't  by  what  he  pretended." 

"  He  can  pretend  to  himself,  or  God  Almighty,  or 
that  lot  down  there" — he  jerked  a  finger  toward  the 
town — "but  to  you,  a  girl,  and  a  Pioneer — " 

A  flash  of  humor  shot  into  her  eyes  at  his  last  words, 
then  they  filled  with   tears,   through  which  the  smile 

244 


HEALING    SPRINGS    AND    PIONEERS 

shone.     To  pretend  to  "a  Pioneer" — the  splendid  van- 
ity and  egotism  of  the  West! 

"  He  didn't  pretend  to  me,  Tim.  People  don't  usually 
have  to  preteiid  to  like  me." 

"You  know  what  I'm  driving  at." 

"Oh  yes,  I  know.  And  whatever  he  is,  you've  said 
that  you  will  save  him.  I'm  straight,  you  know  that. 
Somehow,  what  I  felt  from  his  preaching — well,  every- 
thing got  sort  of  mixed  up  with  him,  and  he  was — was 
different.  It  was  like  the  long  dream  of  Walt  and 
the  baby,  and  he  a  part  of  it.  I  don't  know  what  I 
felt,  or  what  I  might  have  felt  for  him.  I'm  a  woman — 
I  can't  understand.  But  I  know  what  I  feel  now.  I 
never  want  to  see  him  again  on  earth — or  in  heaven. 
It  needn't  be  necessary  even  in  heaven;  but  what 
happened  between  God  and  me  through  him  stays, 
Tim ;  and  so  you  must  help  him  get  away  safe.  It's  in 
your  hands — you  say  they  left  it  to  you." 

"  I  don't  trust  that  too  much." 

Suddenly  he  pointed  out  of  the  window  toward  the 
town.  "See,  I'm  right;  there  they  are,  a  dozen  of  'em 
mounted.     They're  off,  to  run  him  down." 

Her  face  paled;  she  glanced  toward  the  Hill  of  Heal- 
ing. "He's  got  an  hour's  start,"  she  said;  "he'll  get 
into  the  mountains  and  be  safe." 

"  If  they  don't  catch  him  'fore  that." 

"Or  if  you  don't  get  to  him  first,"  she  said,  with 
nervous  insistence. 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  hard  look;  then,  as  he  met 
her  soft,  fearless,  beautiful  eyes,  his  own  grew  gentle. 

"  It  takes  a  lot  of  doing.  Yet  I'll  do  it  for  you, 
Laura,"  he  said.     "  But  it's  hard  on  the  Pioneers." 

Once  more  her  humor  flashed,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  "getting  religion"  was  not  so  depressing  after  all — 
wouldn't  be,  anyhow,  when  this  nasty  job  was  over. 

"The  Pioneers  will  get  over  it,  Tim,"  she  rejoined. 

245 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"  They've  swallowed  a  lot  in  their  time.  Heaven's  gate 
will  have  to  be  pretty  wide  to  let  in  a  real  Pioneer,"  she 
added.  "  He  takes  up  so  much  room  —  ah,  Timothy 
Denton!"  she  added,  with  an  outburst  of  whimsical  mer- 
riment. 

"  It  hasn't  spoiled  you — being  converted — has  it?"  he 
said,  and  gave  a  quick  little  laugh,  which  somehow  did 
more  for  his  ancient  cause  with  her  than  all  he  had  ever 
said  or  done.  Then  he  stepped  outside  and  swung  into 
his  saddle. 

It  had  been  a  hard  and  anxious  ride,  but  Tim  had 
won,  and  was  keeping  his  promise.  The  night  had 
fallen  before  he  got  to  the  mountains,  which  he  and  the 
Pioneers  had  seen  the  Faith  Healer  enter.  They  had 
had  four  miles'  start  of  Tim,  and  had  ridden  fiercely, 
and  they  entered  the  gulch  into  which  the  refugee  had 
disappeared  still  two  miles  ahead. 

The  invincibles  had  seen  Tim  coming,  but  they  had 
determined  to  make  a  sure  thing  of  it,  and  would  them- 
selves do  what  was  necessary  with  the  impostor,  and 
take  no  chances.  So  they  pressed  their  horses,  and  he 
saw  them  swallowed  by  the  trees  as  darkness  gathered. 
Changing  his  course,  he  entered  the  familiar  hills,  which 
he  knew  better  than  any  Pioneer  of  Jansen,  and  rode  a 
diagonal  course  over  the  trail  they  would  take.  But 
night  fell  suddenly,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  wait  till  morning.  There  was  comfort  in  this — the 
others  must  also  wait,  and  the  refugee  could  not  go  far. 
In  any  case,  he  must  make  for  settlement  or  perish, 
since  he  had  left  behind  his  sheep  and  his  cow. 

It  fell  out  better  than  Tim  hoped.  The  Pioneers  were 
as  good  hunters  as  was  he,  their  instinct  was  as  sure, 
their  scouts  and  trackers  were  many,  and  he  was  but 
one.  They  found  the  Faith  Healer  by  a  little  stream, 
eating  bread  and  honey,  and,  like  an  ancient  woodland- 

246 


HEALING    SPRINGS    AND    PIONEERS 

er,  drinking  from  a  horn — relic  of  his  rank  imposture. 
He  made  no  resistance.  They  tried  him,  formally  if 
perfunctorily;  he  admitted  his  imposture,  and  begged 
for  his  life.  Then  they  stripped  him  naked,  tied  a  bit  of 
canvas  round  his  waist,  fastened  him  to  a  tree,  and  were 
about  to  complete  his  punishment  when  Tim  Denton 
burst  upon  them. 

Whether  the  rage  Tim  showed  was  all  real  or  not; 
whether  his  accusations  of  bad  faith  came  from  so 
deeply  wounded  a  spirit  as  he  would  have  them  believe, 
he  was  not  likely  to  tell;  but  he  claimed  the  prisoner 
as  his  own,  and  declined  to  say  what  he  meant  to  do. 
When,  however,  they  saw  the  abject  terror  of  the  Faith 
Healer  as  he  begged  not  to  be  left  alone  with  Tim — for 
they  had  not  meant  death,  and  Ingles  thought  he  read 
death  in  Tim's  ferocious  eyes — they  laughed  cynically, 
and  left  it  to  Tim  to  uphold  the  honor  of  Jansen  and  the 
Pioneers. 

As  they  disappeared,  the  last  thing  they  saw  was  Tim 
with  his  back  to  them,  his  hands  on  his  hips,  and  a  knife 
clasped  in  his  fingers. 

"He'll  lift  his  scalp  and  make  a  monk  of  him," 
chuckled  the  oldest  and  hardest  of  them. 

"Dat  Tim  will  cut  his  heart  out,  I  t'ink — bagosh!" 
said  Nicolle  Terasse,  and  took  a  drink  of  white  whiskey. 

For  a  long  time  Tim  stood  looking  at  the  other,  until 
no  sound  came  from  the  woods  whither  the  Pioneers 
had  gone.  Then  at  last,  slowly  and  with  no  roughness, 
as  the  terror-stricken  impostor  shrank  and  withered,  he 
cut  the  cords. 

"  Dress  yourself,"  he  said,  shortly,  and  sat  down  beside 
the  stream,  and  washed  his  face  and  hands  as  though  to 
cleanse  them  from  contamination.  He  appeared  to  take 
no  notice  of  the  other,  though  his  ears  keenly  noted 
every  movement. 

The  impostor  dressed  nervously,  yet  slowly;  he  scarce 

247 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

comprehended  anything,  except  that  he  was  not  in  im- 
mediate danger.  When  he  had  finished,  he  stood  looking 
at  Tim,  who  was  still  seated  on  a  log  plunged  in  medita- 
tion. 

It  seemed  hours  before  Tim  turned  round,  and  now 
his  face  was  quiet,  if  set  and  determined.  He  walked 
slowly  over,  and  stood  looking  at  his  victim  for  some 
time  without  speaking.  The  other's  eyes  dropped,  and 
a  grayness  stole  over  his  features.  This  steely  calm 
was  even  more  frightening  than  the  ferocity  which  had 
previously  been  in  his  captor's  face.  At  length  the  tense 
silence  was  broken: 

"  Wasn't  the  old  game  good  enough  ?  Was  it  played 
out?  Why  did  you  take  to  this?  Why  did  you  do  it, 
Scranton?" 

The  voice  quavered  a  little  in  reply:  "I  don't  know. 
Something  sort  of  pushed  me  into  it." 

"  How  did  you  come  to  start  it?" 

There  was  a  long  silence,  then  the  husky  reply  came: 

"I  got  a  sickener  last  time — " 

"Yes,  I  remember,  at  Waywing." 

"  I  got  into  the  desert,  and  had  hard  times — awful  for 
a  while.  I  hadn't  enough  to  eat,  and  I  didn't  know 
whether  I'd  die  by  hunger  or  fever  or  Indians  —  or 
vSnakes." 

"Oh,  you  were  seeing  snakes!"  said  Tim,  grimly. 

"  Not  the  kind  you  mean ;  I  hadn't  anything  to 
drink—" 

"  No,  you  never  did  drink,  I  remember — just  was 
crooked,  and  slopped  over  women.  Well,  about  the 
snakes?" 

"  I  caught  them  to  eat,  and  they  were  poison-snakes 
often.  And  I  wasn't  quick  at  first  to  get  them  safe  by 
the  neck — they're  quick,  too." 

Tim  laughed  inwardly.  "  Getting  your  food  by  the 
sweat  of  your  brow — and  a  snake  in  it,  same  as  Adam! 

248 


HEALING  SPRINGS  AND  PIONEERS 

Well,  was  it  in  the  desert  you  got  your  taste  for  honey, 
too,  same  as  John  the  Baptist — that  was  his  name,  if  I 
recomember?"  He  looked  at  the  tin  of  honey  on  the 
ground. 

"Not  in  the  desert,  but  when  I  got  to  the  grass- 
country." 

"  How  long  were  you  in  the  desert?" 

"Close  to  a  year." 

Tim's  eyes  opened  wider.  He  saw  that  the  man  was 
speaking  the  truth. 

"  Got  to  thinking  in  the  desert,  and  sort  of  willing 
things  to  come  to  pass,  and  mooning  along,  you  and 
the  sky  and  the  vultures  and  the  hot  hills  and  the 
snakes  and  the  flowers — eh?" 

"There  weren't  any  flowers  till  I  got  to  the  grass- 
country." 

"Oh,  cuss  me,  if  you  ain't  simple  for  your  kind!  I 
know  all  about  that.  And  when  you  got  to  the  grass- 
country  you  just  picked  up  the  honey  and  the  flowers, 
and  a  calf  and  a  lamb  and  a  mule  here  and  there, 
'without  money  and  without  price,'  and  walked  on — 
that  it?" 

The  other  shrank  before  the  steel  in  the  voice,  and 
nodded  his  head. 

"  But  you  kept  thinking  in  the  grass-country  of  what 
you'd  felt  and  said  and  done — and  willed,  in  the  desert, 
I  suppose?" 

Again  the  other  nodded. 

"  It  seemed  to  you  in  the  desert  as  if  you'd  saved 
your  own  life  a  hundred  times,  as  if  you'd  just  willed 
food  and  drink  and  safety  to  come;  as  if  Providence  had 
been  at  your  elbow?" 

"  It  was  like  a  dream,  and  it  stayed  with  me.  I  had 
to  think  in  the  desert  things  I'd  never  thought  before," 
was  the  half-abstracted  answer. 

"  You  felt  good  in  the  desert  ? " 

249 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

The  other  hung  his  head  in  shame. 

"Makes  you  seem  pretty  small,  doesn't  it?  You 
didn't  stay  long  enough,  I  guess,  to  get  what  you  were 
feeling  for;  you  started  in  on  the  new  racket  too  soon. 
You  never  got  really  possessed  that  you  was  a  sinner. 
I  expect  that's  it." 

The  other  made  no  reply. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  much  about  such  things.  I  was 
loose  brought  up;  but  I've  a  friend" — Laura  was  before 
his  eyes — "  that  says  religion's  all  right,  and  long  ago 
as  I  can  remember  my  mother  used  to  pray  three  times 
a  day — with  grace  at  meals,  too.  I  know  there's  a  lot 
in  it  for  them  that  need  it;  and  there  seems  to  be  a  lot 
of  folks  needing  it,  if  I'm  to  judge  by  folks  down  there 
at  Jansen,  'specially  when  there's  the  laying-on  of  hands 
and  the  Healing  Springs.  Oh,  that  was  a  pigsty  game, 
Scranton,  that  about  God  giving  you  the  Healing 
Springs,  like  Moses  and  the  rock!  Why,  I  discovered 
them  springs  myself  two  years  ago,  before  I  went  South, 
and  I  guess  God  wasn't  helping  me  any — not  after  I've 
kept  out  of  His  way  as  I  have.  But,  anyhow,  religion's 
real;  that's  my  sense  of  it;  and  you  can  get  it,  I  bet, 
if  you  try.  I've  seen  it  got.  A  friend  of  mine  got  it — 
got  it  under  your  preaching;  not  from  you;  but  you 
was  the  accident  that  brought  it  about,  I  expect.  It's 
funny — it's  merakilous,  but  it's  so.  Kneel  down!"  he 
added,  with  peremptory  suddenness.  "  Kneel,  Scran- 
ton!" 

In  fear  the  other  knelt. 

"  You're  going  to  get  religion  now  —  here.  You're 
going  to  pray  for  what  you  didn't  get — and  almost  got 
— in  the  desert.  You're  going  to  ask  forgiveness  for  all 
your  damn  tricks,  and  pray  like  a  fanning-mill  for  the 
Spirit  to  come  down.  You  ain't  a  scoundrel  at  heart 
— a  friend  of  mine  says  so.  You're  a  weak  vessel — 
cracked,  perhaps.     You've  got  to  be  saved,  and  start 

250 


HEALING    SPRINGS    AND    PIONEERS 

right  over  again  —  and  '  Praise  God  from  whom  all 
blessings  flow!'  Pray — pray,  Scranton,  and  tell  the 
whole  truth,  and  get  it — get  religion.  Pray  like  blazes. 
You  go  on,  and  pray  out  loud.  Remember  the  desert, 
and  Mary  Jewell,  and  your  mother — did  you  have  a 
mother,  Scranton? — say,  did  you  have  a  mother,  lad?" 

Tim's  voice  suddenly  lowered  before  the  last  word, 
for  the  Faith  Healer  had  broken  down  in  a  torrent  of 
tears. 

"Oh,  my  mother — O  God!"  he  groaned. 

"Say,  that's  right — that's  right— go  on,"  said  the 
other  and  drew  back  a  little,  and  sat  down  on  a  log. 

The  man  on  his  knees  was  convulsed  with  misery. 
Denton,  the  world,  disappeared.     He  prayed  in  agony. 

Presently  Tim  moved  uneasily,  then  got  up  and 
walked  about;  and  at  last,  with  a  strange,  awed  look, 
when  an  hour  was  past,  he  stole  back  into  the  shadow 
of  the  trees  while  still  the  wounded  soul  poured  out  its 
misery  and  repentance. 

Time  moved  on.  A  curious  shyness  possessed  Tim 
now,  a  thing  which  he  had  never  felt  in  his  life.  He 
moved  about  self-consciously,  awkwardly,  until  at  last 
there  was  a  sudden  silence  over  by  the  brook. 

Tim  looked,  and  saw  the  face  of  the  kneeling  man 
cleared  and  quiet  and  shining.  He  hesitated,  then 
stepped  out,  and  came  over. 

"Have  you  got  it?"  he  asked,  quietly.  "It's  noon 
now." 

"  May  God  help  me  to  redeem  my  past,"  answered  the 
other,  in  a  new  voice. 

"  You've  got  it — sure  ? "     Tim's  voice  was  meditative. 

"God  has  spoken  to  me,"  was  the  simple  answer. 

"I've  got  a  friend  '11  be  glad  to  hear  that,"  he  said; 
and  once  more,  in  imagination,  he  saw  Laura  Sloly 
standing  at  the  door  of  her  home,  with  a  light  in  her  eyes 
he  had  never  seen  before. 

251 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"You'll  want  some  money  for  your  journey?"  Tim 
asked. 

"  I  want  nothing  but  to  go  away — far  away,"  was  the 
low  reply. 

"Well,  you've  lived  in  the  desert — I  guess  you  can 
live  in  the  grass-country,"  came  the  dry  response. 
"Good-bye — and  good-luck,  Scranton." 

Tim  turned  to  go,  moved  on  a  few  steps,  then  looked 
back. 

"  Don't  be  afraid— they'll  not  follow,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
fix  it  for  you  all  right." 

But  the  man  appeared  not  to  hear;  he  was  still  on 
his  knees. 

Tim  faced  the  woods  once  more. 

He  was  about  to  mount  his  horse  when  he  heard  a 
step  behind  him.     He  turned  sharply — and  faced  Laura. 

"  I  couldn't  rest.  I  came  out  this  morning.  I've  seen 
everything,"  she  said. 

"You  didn't  trust  me,"  he  vSaid,  heavily. 

"  I  never  did  anything  else,"  she  answered. 

He  gazed  half-fearfully  into  her  eyes.  "Well?"  he 
asked.     "I've  done  my  best,  as  I  said  I  would." 

"Tim,"  she  said,  and  slipped  a  hand  in  his,  "would 
you  mind  the  religion — if  you  had  me?" 


THE   LITTLE   WIDOW  OF  JANSEN 

Her  advent  to  Jansen  was  propitious.  Smallpox  in 
its  most  virulent  form  had  broken  out  in  the  French- 
Canadian  portion  of  the  town,  and,  coming  with  some 
professional  nurses  from  the  East,  herself  an  amateur, 
to  attend  the  sufferers,  she  worked  with  such  skill  and 
devotion  that  the  official  thanks  of  the  Corporation 
were  offered  her,  together  with  a  tiny  gold  watch,  the 
gift  of  grateful  citizens.  But  she  still  remained  on  at 
Jansen,  saying  always,  however,  that  she  was  "  going  East 
in  the  spring." 

Five  years  had  passed,  and  still  she  had  not  gone  East, 
but  remained  perched  in  the  rooms  she  had  first  taken, 
over  the  Imperial  Bank,  while  the  town  grew  up  swiftly 
round  her.  And  even  when  the  young  bank  manager 
married,  and  wished  to  take  over  the  rooms,  she  sent 
him  to  the  right-about  from  his  own  premises  in  her  gay, 
masterful  way.  The  young  manager  behaved  well  in 
the  circumstances,  because  he  had  asked  her  to  marry 
him,  and  she  had  dismissed  him  with  a  warning  against 
challenging  his  own  happiness — that  was  the  way  she 
had  put  it.  Perhaps  he  was  galled  the  less  because 
others  had  striven  for  the  same  prize  and  had  been 
thrust  back,  with  an  almost  tender  misgiving  as  to  their 
sense  of  self-preservation  and  sanity.  Some  of  them 
were  eligible  enough,  and  all  were  of  some  position  in  the 
West.  Yet  she  smiled  them  firmly  away,  to  the  wonder 
of  Jansen,  and  to  its  satisfaction,  for  was  it  not  a  tribute 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

to  all  that  she  would  distinguish  no  particular  unit  by 
her  permanent  favor?  But  for  one  so  sprightly  and 
almost  frivolous  in  manner  at  times,  the  self-denial 
seemed  incongruous.  She  was  unconventional  enough 
to  sit  on  the  sidewalk  with  a  half-dozen  children  round 
her  blowing  bubbles,  or  to  romp  in  any  garden,  or  in  the 
street,  playing  Puss-in-the-ring ;  yet  this  only  made  her 
more  popular.  Jansen's  admiration  was  at  its  highest, 
however,  when  she  rode  in  the  annual  steeplechase  with 
the  best  horsemen  of  the  province.  She  had  the  gift  of 
doing  as  well  as  of  being. 

"  'Tis  the  light  heart  she  has,  and  slippin'  in  and  out 
of  things  like  a  hummin'  -  bird,  no  easier  to  ketch  and 
no  longer  to  stay,"  said  Finden,  the  rich  Irish  land- 
broker,  suggestively  to  Father  Bourassa,  the  huge  French- 
Canadian  priest  who  had  worked  with  her  through  all 
the  dark  weeks  of  the  smallpox  epidemic,  and  who 
knew  what  lay  beneath  the  outer  gayety.  She  had  been 
buoyant  of  spirit  beside  the  beds  of  the  sick,  and  her 
words  were  full  of  raillery  and  humor,  yet  there  was 
ever  a  gentle  note  behind  all;  and  the  priest  had  seen 
her  eyes  shining  with  tears  as  she  bent  over  some  stricken 
sufferer  bound  upon  an  interminable  journey. 

"Bedad!  as  bright  a  little  spark  as  ever  struck  ofl 
the  steel,"  added  Finden  to  the  priest,  with  a  sidelong, 
inquisitive  look,  "but  a  heart  no  bigger  that  a  marrow- 
fat pea — selfishness,  all  self.  Keepin'  herself  for  herself 
when  there's  many  a  good  man  needin'  her.  Mother 
o'  Moses,  how  many!  From  Terry  O'Ryan,  brother 
of  a  peer,  at  Latouche,  to  Bernard  Bapty,  son  of  a 
millionaire,  at  Vancouver,  there's  a  string  o'  them. 
All  pride  and  self;  and  as  fair  a  lot  they've  been  as 
ever  entered  for  the  Marriage  Cup.  Now  'sn't  that 
so,  father?" 

Finden's  brogue  did  not  come  from  a  plebeian  origin. 
It  was  part  of  his  commercial  equipment,  an  asset  of 

254 


THE    LITTLE    WIDOW    OF    JANSEN 

his  boyhood  spent  among  the  peasants  on  the  family 
estate  in  Galway. 

Father  Bourassa  fanned  himself  with  the  black  broad- 
brim hat  he  wore,  and  looked  benignly  but  quizzically 
on  the  wiry,  sharp-faced  Irishman. 

"  You  t'ink  her  heart  is  leetla.  But  perhaps  it  is 
your  mind  is  not  so  big  enough  to  see — hien?"  The 
priest  laughed  noiselessly,  showing  white  teeth.  "  Was 
it  so  selfish  in  Madame  to  refuse  the  name  of  Finden 
— n'est-ce  pas?" 

Finden  flushed,  then  burst  into  a  laugh.  "I'd  almost 
forgotten  I  was  one  of  them — the  first  almost.  Blessed 
be  he  that  expects  nothing,  for  he'll  get  it  sure.  It 
was  my  duty,  and  I  did  it.  Was  she  to  feel  that  Jansen 
did  not  price  her  high  ?  Bedad,  father,  I  rose  betimes 
and  did  it,  before  anny  man  should  say  he  set  me  the 
lead.  Before  the  carpet  in  the  parlor  was  down,  and 
with  the  bare  boards  soundin'  to  my  words,  I  offered  her 
the  name  of  Finden." 

"And  so — the  first  of  the  long  line!  Bien,  it  is  an 
honor."  The  priest  paused  a  moment,  looked  at  Finden 
with  a  curious  reflective  look,  and  then  said,  "  And  so 
you  t'ink  there  is  no  one;  that  she  will  say  yes  not  at 
all— no  ? " 

They  were  sitting  on  Father  Bourassa's  verandah, 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  above  the  great  river, 
along  which  had  travelled  millions  of  bygone  people, 
fighting,  roaming,  hunting,  trapping;  and  they  could 
hear  it  rushing  past,  see  the  swirling  eddies,  the  im- 
petuous currents,  the  occasional  rafts  moving  majes- 
tically down  the  stream.  They  were  facing  the  wild 
North,  while  civilization  was  hacking  and  hewing  and 
ploughing  its  way  to  newer  and  newer  cities,  in  an 
empire  ever  spreading  to  the  Pole. 

Finden's  glance  loitered  on  this  scene  before  he  replied. 
At  length,  screwing  up  one  eye,  and  with  a  suggestive 

255 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

smile,  he  answered:  "Sure,  it's  all  a  matter  of  time, 
to  the  selfishest  woman.  'Tis  not  the  same  with  women 
as  with  men;  you  see,  they  don't  get  younger — that's  a 
point.  But" — he  gave  a  meaning  glance  at  the  priest — 
"but  perhaps  she's  not  going  to  wait  for  that,  after  all. 
And  there  he  rides,  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  too,  if  I  have 
to  say  it!" 

"  M'sieu'  Varley?"  the  priest  responded,  and  watched 
a  galloping  horseman  to  whom  Finden  had  pointed  till 
he  rounded  a  corner  of  a  little  wood. 

"  Varley,  the  great  London  surgeon,  sure!  Say,  father, 
it's  a  hundred  to  one  she'd  take  him  if — " 

There  was  a  curious  look  in  Father  Bourassa's  face, 
a  cloud  in  his  eyes.  He  sighed.  "  London,  it  is  ver' 
far  away,"  he  remarked,  obliquely. 

"  What's  to  that  ?  If  she  is  with  the  right  man,  near 
or  far  is  nothing." 

"So  far — from  home,"  said  the  priest,  reflectively, but 
his  eyes  furtively  watched  the  other's  face. 

"But  home's  where  man  and  wife  are." 

The  priest  now  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 
"Then,  as  you  say,  she  will  not  marry  M'sieu'  Varley — • 
hein?" 

The  humor  died  out  of  Finden's  face.  His  eyes  met 
the  priest's  eyes  steadily.  "  Did  I  say  that  ?  Then  my 
tongue  wasn't  making  a  fool  of  me,  after  all.  How  did 
you  guess  I  knew — everything,  father?" 

"A  priest  knows  many  t'ings — so." 

There  was  a  moment  of  gloom,  then  the  Irishman 
brightened.  He  came  straight  to  the  heart  of  the 
mystery  around  which  they  had  been  manoeuvring. 
"  Have  you  seen  her  husband — Meydon — this  year  ? 
It  isn't  his  usual  time  to  come  yet." 

Father  Bourassa's  eyes  drew  those  of  his  friend  into 
the  light  of  a  new  understanding  and  revelation.  They 
understood  and  trusted  each  other. 

256 


AS      PlJRTY      a      woman       too— as      PURTY      and     A3 
STRAIGHT     BEWHILES' 


THE    LITTLE    WIDOW    OF    JANSEN 

"Helas!  He  is  there  in  the  hospital,"  he  answered, 
and  nodded  toward  a  building  not  far  away,  which  had 
been  part  of  an  old  Hudson  Bay  Company's  fort.  It 
had  been  hastily  adapted  as  a  hospital  for  the  smallpox 
victims. 

"Oh,  it's  Meydon,  is  it,  that  bad  case  I  heard  of 
to-day?" 

The  priest  nodded  again  and  pointed.  "  Voila,  Ma- 
dame Meydon,  she  is  coming.  She  has  seen  him — her 
hoosban'." 

Finden's  eyes  followed  the  gesture.  The  little  widow 
of  Jansen  was  coming  from  the  hospital,  walking  slowly 
toward  the  river. 

"  As  purty  a  woman,  too — as  purty  and  as  straight 
bewhiles.  What  is  the  matter  with  him — with  Meydon  ?" 
Finden  asked,  after  a  moment. 

"  An  accident  in  the  woods — so.  He  arrive,  it  is  las' 
night,  from  Great  Slave  Lake." 

Finden  sighed.  "Ten  years  ago  he  was  a  man  to 
look  at  twice — before,  he  did  It  and  got  away.  Now 
his  own  mother  wouldn't  know  him — bad  'cess  to  him! 
I  knew  him  from  the  cradle  almost.  I  spotted  him 
here  by  a  knife-cut  I  gave  him  in  the  hand  when  we 
were  lads  together.  A  divil  of  a  timper  always  both 
of  us  had,  but  the  good-nature  was  with  me,  and  I 
didn't  drink  and  gamble  and  carry  a  pistol.  It's  ten 
years  since  he  did  the  killing,  down  in  Quebec,  and 
I  don't  suppose  the  police  will  get  him  now.  He's 
been  counted  dead.  I  recognized  him  here  the  night 
after  I  asked  her  how  she  liked  the  name  of  Finden. 
She  doesn't  know  that  I  ever  knew  him.  And  he 
didn't  recognize  me — twenty-five  years  since  we  met 
before!  It  would  be  better  if  he  went  under  the  sod. 
Is  he  pretty  sick,  father?" 

"  He  will  die  unless  the  surgeon's  knife  it  cure  him 
before  twenty-four  hours,  and — " 

257 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"And  Doctor  Brydon  is  sick,  and  Doctor  Hadley 
away  at  Winnipeg,  and  this  is  two  hundred  miles  from 
nowhere!  It  looks  as  if  the  police  '11  never  get  him, 
eh?" 

"  You  have  not  tell  any  one — never  ? " 

Finden  laughed.  "  Though  I'm  not  a  priest,  I  can  lock 
myself  up  as  tight  as  anny.  There's  no  tongue  that's 
so  tied,  when  tying's  needed,  as  the  one  that  babbles 
most  bewhiles.     Babbling  covers  a  lot  of  secrets." 

"  So  you  t'ink  it  better  Meydon  should  die,  as  Hadley 
is  away  and  Brydon  is  sick — hein?" 

"Oh,  I  think—" 

Finden  stopped  short,  for  a  horse's  hoofs  sounded  on 
the  turf  beside  the  house,  and  presently  Varley,  the 
great  London  surgeon,  rounded  the  corner  and  stopped 
his  horse  in  front  of  the  veranda. 

He  lifted  his  hat  to  the  priest.  "  I  hear  there's  a  bad 
case  at  the  hospital,"  he  said. 

"It  is  ver'  dangerous,"  answered  Father  Bourassa; 
"but,  voila,  come  in!  There  is  something  cool  to  drink. 
Ah,  yes,  he  is  ver'  bad,  that  man  from  the  Great  Slave 
Lake." 

Inside  the  house,  with  the  cooling  drinks,  Varley 
pressed  his  questions,  and  presently,  much  interested, 
told  at  some  length  of  singular  cases  which  had  passed 
through  his  hands — ^one  a  man  with  his  neck  broken, 
who  had  lived  for  six  months  afterward. 

"  Broken  as  a  man's  neck  is  broken  by  hanging — dis- 
location, really — the  disjointing  of  the  medulla  oblongata, 
if  you  don't  mind  technicalities,"  he  said.  "But  I  kept 
him  living  just  the  same.  Time  enough  for  him  to  re- 
pent in  and  get  ready  to  go.  A  most  interesting  case. 
He  was  a  criminal,  too,  and  wanted  to  die;  but  you 
have  to  keep  life  going  if  you  can,  to  the  last  inch  of 
resistance." 

The  priest  looked  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window; 

258 


THE    LITTLE    WIDOW    OF    J  AN  SEN 

Finden's  eyes  were  screwed  up  in  a  questioning  way, 
but  neither  made  any  response  to  Varley's  remarks. 
There  was  a  long  minute's  silence.  They  were  all  three 
roused  by  hearing  a  light  footstep  on  the  veranda. 

Father  Bourassa  put  down  his  glass  and  hastened  into 
the  hallway.  Finden  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woman's 
figure,  and,  without  a  word,  passed  abruptly  from  the 
dining-room,  where  they  were,  into  the  priest's  study, 
leaving  Varley  alone.  Varley  turned  to  look  after  him, 
stared,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  manners  of  the  West,"  he  said,  good-humoredly, 
and  turned  again  to  the  hallway,  from  whence  came 
the  sound  of  the  priest's  voice.  Presently  there  was 
another  voice— a  woman's.  He  flushed  slightly  and  in- 
voluntarily straightened  himself. 

"Valerie,"  he  murmuied. 

An  instant  afterward  she  entered  the  room  with  the 
priest.  She  was  dressed  in  a  severely  simple  suit  of 
gray,  which  set  off  to  advantage  her  slim,  graceful  figure. 
There  seemed  no  reason  why  she  should  have  been 
called  the  little  widow  of  Jansen,  for  she  was  not  small, 
but  she  was  very  finely  and  delicately  made,  and  the 
name  had  been  but  an  expression  of  Jansen's  paternal 
feeling  for  her.  She  had  always  had  a  good  deal  of 
fresh  color,  but  to-day  she  seemed  pale,  though  her 
eyes  had  a  strange  disturbing  light.  It  was  not  that 
they  brightened  on  seeing  this  man  before  her;  they 
had  been  brighter,  burningly  bright,  when  she  left  the 
hospital,  where,  since  it  had  been  built,  she  had  been 
the  one  visitor  of  authority — Jansen  had  given  her  that 
honor.  She  had  a  gift  of  smiling,  and  she  smiled  now, 
but  it  came  from  grace  of  mind  rather  than  from  humor. 
As  Finden  had  said,  "  She  was  forever  acting,  and  never 
doin'  any  harm  by  it." 

Certainly  she  was  doing  no  harm  by  it  now;  never- 
theless, it  was  acting.  Could  it  be  otherwise,  with  what 
i8  259 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

was  behind  her  life — a  husband  who  had  ruined  her 
youth,  had  committed  homicide,  had  escaped  capture, 
but  who  had  not  subsequently  died,  as  the  world  believed 
he  had  done,  so  circumstantial  was  the  evidence.  He 
was  not  man  enough  to  make  the  accepted  belief  in 
his  death  a  fact.  What  could  she  do  but  act,  since  the 
day  she  got  a  letter  from  the  Far  North,  which  took  her 
out  to  Jansen,  nominally  to  nurse  those  stricken  with 
smallpox  under  Father  Bourassa's  care,  actually  to  be 
where  her  wretched  husband  could  come  to  her  once  a 
year,  as  he  had  asked  with  an  impossible  selfishness  ? 

Each  year  she  had  seen  him  for  an  hour  or  less,  giving 
him  money,  speaking  to  him  over  a  gulf  so  wide  that 
it  seemed  sometimes  as  though  her  voice  could  not  be 
heard  across  it;  each  year  opening  a  grave  to  look  at 
the  embalmed  face  of  one  who  had  long  since  died 
in  shame,  which  only  brought  back  the  cruellest  of  all 
memories,  that  which  one  would  give  one's  best  years 
to  forget.  With  a  fortitude  beyond  description  she 
had  faced  it,  gently,  quietly,  but  firmly  faced  it — 
firmly,  because  she  had  to  be  firm  in  keeping  him  within 
those  bounds  the  invasion  of  which  would  have  killed 
her.  And  after  the  first  struggle  with  his  unchangeable 
brutality  it  had  been  easier:  for  into  his  degenerate 
brain  there  had  come  a  faint  understanding  of  the 
real  situation  and  of  her.  He  had  kept  his  side  of  the 
gulf,  but  gloating  on  this  touch  between  the  old  luxurious, 
indulgent  life,  with  its  refined  vices,  and  this  present 
coarse,  hard  life,  where  pleasures  were  few  and  gross. 
The  free  Northern  life  of  toil  and  hardship  had  not 
refined  him.  He  greedily  hung  over  this  treasure, 
which  was  not  for  his  spending,  yet  was  his  own — as 
though  in  a  bank  he  had  hoards  of  money  which  he 
might  not  withdraw. 

So  the  years  had  gone  on,  with  their  recurrent  dreaded 
anniversaries,  carrying  misery  almost  too  great  to  be 

260 


THE    LITTLE    WIDOW    OF    JANSEN 

borne  by  this  woman  mated  to  the  loathed  phantom 
of  a  sad,  dead  life;  and  when  this  black  day  of  each 
year  was  over,  for  a  few  days  afterwards  she  went 
nowhere,  was  seen  by  none.  Yet,  when  she  did  appear 
again,  it  was  with  her  old  laughing  manner,  her  cheerful 
and  teasing  words,  her  quick  response  to  the  emotions 
of  others. 

So  it  had  gone  till  Varley  had  come  to  follow  the 
open-air  life  for  four  months,  after  a  heavy  illness  due 
to  blood-poisoning  got  in  his  surgical  work  in  London. 
She  had  been  able  to  live  her  life  without  too  great  a 
struggle  till  he  came.  Other  men  had  flattered  her 
vanity,  had  given  her  a  sense  of  power,  had  made  her 
understand  her  possibilities,  but  nothing  more — nothing 
of  what  Varley  brought  with  him.  And  before  three 
months  had  gone,  she  knew  that  no  man  had  ever 
interested  her  as  Varley  had  done.  Ten  years  before, 
she  would  not  have  appreciated  or  understood  him, 
this  intellectual,  clean-shaven,  rigidly  abstemious  man, 
whose  pleasures  belonged  to  the  fishing-rod  and  the 
gun  and  the  horse,  and  who  had  come  to  be  so  great 
a  friend  of  him  who  had  been  her  best  friend — Father 
Bourassa.  Father  Bourassa  had  come  to  know  the 
truth — not  from  her,  for  she  had  ever  been  a  Protestant, 
but  from  her  husband,  who.  Catholic  by  birth  and  a 
renegade  from  all  religion,  had  had  a  moment  of  spurious 
emotion,  when  he  went  and  confessed  to  Father  Bourassa 
and  got  absolution,  pleading  for  the  priest's  care  of  his 
wife,  x-lfterward  Father  Bourassa  made  up  his  mind 
that  the  confession  had  a  purpose  behind  it  other  than 
repentance,  and  he  deeply  resented  the  use  to  which  he 
thought  he  was  being  put — a  kind  of  spy  upon  the  beau- 
tiful woman  whom  Jansen  loved,  and  who,  in  spite  of 
any  outward  flippancy,  was  above  reproach. 

In  vital  things  the  instinct  becomes  abnormally  acute, 
and,  one  day,  when  the  priest  looked  at  her  commiserat- 

261 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

ingly,  she  had  divined  what  moved  him.  However  it 
was,  she  drove  him  into  a  corner  with  a  question  to 
which  he  dare  not  answer  yes,  but  to  which  he  might 
not  answer  no,  and  did  not;  and  she  reahzed  that  he 
knew  the  truth,  and  she  was  the  better  for  his  knowing, 
though  her  secret  was  no  longer  a  secret.  She  was 
not  aware  that  Finden  also  knew.  Then  Varley  came, 
bringing  a  new  joy  and  interest  in  her  life,  and  a  new 
suffering  also,  for  she  realized  that  if  she  were  free,  and 
Varley  asked  her  to  marry  him,  she  would  consent. 

But  when  he  did  ask  her,  she  said  no  with  a  pang 
that  cut  her  heart  in  two.  He  had  stayed  his  four 
months,  and  it  was  now  six  months,  and  he  was  going 
at  last — to-morrow.  He  had  stayed  to  give  her  time  to 
learn  to  say  yes,  and  to  take  her  back  with  him  to 
London ;  and  she  knew  that  he  would  speak  again  to-day, 
and  that  she  must  say  no  again;  but  she  had  kept  him 
from  saying  the  words  till  now.  And  the  man  who 
had  ruined  her  life  and  had  poisoned  her  true  spirit 
was  come  back  broken  and  battered.  He  was  hanging 
between  life  and  death;  and  now — for  he  was  going  to- 
morrow— Varley  would  speak  again. 

The  half-hour  she  had  just  spent  in  the  hospital  with 
Meydon  had  tried  her  cruelly.  She  had  left  the  building 
in  a  vortex  of  conflicting  emotions,  with  the  call  of  duty 
and  of  honor  ringing  through  a  thousand  other  voices 
of  temptation  and  desire,  the  inner  pleadings  for  a  little 
happiness  while  yet  she  was  young.  After  she  married 
Meydon,  there  had  only  been  a  few  short  weeks  of  joy 
before  her  black  disillusion  came,  and  she  had  realized 
how  bitter  must  be  her  martyrdom. 

When  she  left  the  hospital,  she  seemed  moving  in  a 
dream,  as  one  intoxicated  by  some  elixir  might  move 
unheeding  among  event  and  accident  and  vexing  life 
and  roaring  multitudes.  And  all  the  while  the  river 
flowing  through  the  endless  prairies,  high-banked,  en- 

262 


THE    LITTLE    WIDOW    OF    JANSEN 

nobled  by  living  woods,  lipped  with  green,  kept  surging 
in  her  ears,  inviting  her,  alluring  her — alluring  her  with 
a  force  too  deep  and  powerful  for  weak  human  nature 
to  bear  for  long.  It  would  ease  her  pain,  it  said;  it 
would  still  the  tumult  and  the  storm;  it  would  solve  her 
problem,  it  would  give  her  peace.  But  as  she  moved 
along  the  river-bank  among  the  trees,  she  met  the  little 
niece  of  the  priest,  who  lived  in  his  house,  singing,  as 
though  she  was  born  but  to  sing,  a  song  which  Finden 
had  written  and  Father  Bourassa  had  set  to  music. 
Did  not  the  distant  West  know  Father  Bourassa's  gift, 
and  did  not  Protestants  attend  Mass  to  hear  him  play 
the  organ  afterward?  The  fresh,  clear  voice  of  the 
child  rang  through  the  trees,  stealing  the  stricken  heart 
away  from  the  lure  of  the  river: 

"Will  you  come  back  home,  where  the  young  larks  are 
singin'  ? 
The  door  is  open  wide,  and  the  bells  of  Lynn  are  ringin'; 
There's  a  little  lake  I  know. 
And  a  boat  you  used  to  row 
To  the  shore  beyond  that's  quiet — will  you  come  back 
home? 

"  Will  you  come  back,  darlin'  ?     Never  heed  the  pain  and 
blightin'. 
Never  trouble  that  you're  wounded,  that  you  bear  the 
scars  of  fightin' ; 

Here's  the  luck  o'  Heaven  to  you. 
Here's  the  hand  of  love  will  brew  you 
The  cup  of  peace — ah,  darlin',  will  you  come  back  home?" 

She  stood  listening  for  a  few  moments,  and,  under 
the  spell  of  the  fresh,  young  voice,  the  homely,  heart- 
searching  words,  and  the  intimate  sweetness  of  the 
woods,  the  despairing  apathy  lifted  slowly  away.  She 
started  forward  again  with  a  new  understanding,  her 

263 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

footsteps  quickened.  She  would  go  to  Father  Bourassa. 
He  would  understand.  She  would  tell  him  all.  He 
would  help  her  to  do  what  now  she  knew  she  must  do, 
ask  Leonard  Varley  to  save  her  husband's  life — Leonard 
Varley  to  save  her  husband's  life! 

When  she  stepped  upon  the  veranda  of  the  priest's 
house,  she  did  not  know  that  Varley  was  inside.  She 
had  no  time  to  think.  She  was  ushered  into  the  room 
where  he  was,  with  the  confusing  fact  of  his  presence 
fresh  upon  her.  She  had  had  but  a  word  or  two  with 
the  priest,  but  enough  for  him  to  know  what  she  meant 
to  do,  and  that  it  must  be  done  at  once. 

Varley  advanced  to  meet  her.  She  shuddered  in- 
wardly to  think  what  a  difference  there  was  between 
the  fallen  creature  she  had  left  behind  in  the  hospital 
and  this  tall,  dark',  self-contained  man,  whose  name  was 
familiar  in  the  surgeries  of  Europe,  who  had  climbed 
from  being  the  son  of  a  clockmaker  to  his  present  dis- 
tinguished place. 

"Have  you  come  for  absolution,  also?"  he  asked, 
with  a  smile;  "or  is  it  to  get  a  bill  of  excommunica- 
tion against  your  only  enemy — there  couldn't  be  more 
than  one?" 

Cheerful  as  his  words  were,  he  was  shrewdly  observing 
her,  for  her  paleness  and  the  strange  light  in  her  eyes 
gave  him  a  sense  of  anxiety.  He  wondered  what  trouble 
was  on  her. 

"Excommunication?"  he  repeated. 

The  unintended  truth  went  home.  She  winced,  even 
as  she  responded  with  that  quaint  note  in  her  voice 
which  gave  humor  to  her  speech.  "  Yes,  excommuni- 
cation," she  replied;  "but  why  an  enemy?  Do  we  not 
need  to  excommunicate  our  friends  sometimes?" 

"  That  is  a  hard  saying,"  he  answered,  soberly. 

Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  but  she  mastered  herself, 
and  brought  the  crisis  abruptly. 

264 


THE    LITTLE    WIDOW    OP    JANSEN 

"  I  want  you  to  save  a  man's  life,"  she  said,  with  her 
eyes  looking  straight  into  his.     "  Will  you  do  it?" 

His  face  grew  grave  and  eager.  "  I  want  you  to  save 
a  man's  happiness,"  he  answered.     "Will  you  do  it?" 

"That  man  yonder  will  die  unless  your  skill  saves 
him,"  she  urged. 

"This  man  here  will  go  away  unhappy  and  alone, 
unless  your  heart  befriends  him,"  he  replied,  coming 
closer  to  her.  "  At  sunrise  to-morrow  he  goes."  He 
tried  to  take  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  please,  please,"  she  pleaded,  with  a  quick,  pro- 
testing gesture.  "  Sunrise  is  far  off,  but  the  man's  fate 
is  near,  and  you  must  save  him.  You  only  can  do  so, 
for  Doctor  Hadley  is  away,  and  Doctor  Brydon  is  sick, 
and  in  any  case  Doctor  Brydon  dare  not  attempt  the 
operation  alone.     It  is  too  critical  and  difficult,  he  says." 

"  So  I  have  heard,"  he  answered,  with  a  new  note  in 
his  voice,  his  professional  instinct  roused  in  spite  of  him- 
self.    "  Who  is  this  man  ?     What  interests  you  in  him  ? " 

"  To  how  many  unknown  people  have  you  given  your 
skill  for  nothing — your  skill  and  all  your  experience  to 
utter  strangers,  no  matter  how  low  or  poor!  Is  it  not 
so?  Well,  I  cannot  give  to  strangers  what  you  have 
given  to  so  many,  but  I  can  help  in  my  own  way." 

"  You  want  me  to  see  the  man  at  once  ? " 

"  If  you  will." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  I  know  of  his  accident  and  the 
circumstances." 

She  hesitated  for  an  instant,  then  said,  "  He  is  called 
Draper— a  trapper  and  a  woodsman." 

"But  I  was  going  away  to-morrow  at  sunrise.  All 
my  arrangements  are  made,"  he  urged,  his  eyes  holding 
hers,  his  passion  swimming  in  his  eyes  again. 

"  But  you  will  not  see  a  man  die,  if  you  can  save  him  ?" 
she  pleaded,  unable  now  to  meet  his  look,  its  mastery 
and  its  depth. 

265 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Her  heart  had  almost  leaped  with  joy  at  the  sug- 
gestion that  he  could  not  stay;  but  as  suddenly  self- 
reproach  and  shame  filled  her  mind,  and  she  had  chal- 
lenged him  so.  But  yet,  what  right  had  she  to  sacrifice 
this  man  she  loved  to  the  perverted  criminal  who  had 
spoiled  her  youth  and  taken  away  from  her  every  dear 
illusion  of  her  Hfe  and  heart  ?  By  every  right  of  justice 
and  humanity  she  was  no  more  the  wife  of  Henry 
Meydon  than  if  she  had  never  seen  him.  He  had  for- 
feited every  claim  upon  her,  dragged  in  the  mire  her 
unspotted  life — unspotted,  for  in  all  temptation,  in  her 
defenceless  position,  she  had  kept  the  whole  command- 
ment; she  had,  while  at  the  mercy  of  her  own  tempera- 
ment, fought  her  way  through  all,  with  a  weeping  heart 
and  laughing  lips.  Had  she  not  longed  for  a  little 
home  with  a  great  love,  and  a  strong,  true  man  ?  Ah, 
it  had  been  lonely,  bitterly  lonely!  Yet  she  had  re- 
mained true  to  the  scoundrel,  from  whom  she  could 
not  free  herself  without  putting  him  in  the  grasp  of  the 
law  to  atone  for  his  crime.  She  was  punished  for  his 
crimes;  she  was  denied  the  exercise  of  her  womanhood 
in  order  to  shield  him.  Still  she  remembered  that  once 
she  had  loved  him,  those  years  ago,  when  he  first  won 
her  heart  from  those  so  much  better  than  he,  who  loved 
her  so  much  more  honestly;  and  this  memory  had 
helped  her  in  a  way.  She  had  tried  to  be  true  to  it, 
that  dead,  lost  thing,  of  which  this  man  who  came  once 
a  year  to  see  her,  and  now,  lying  with  his  life  at  stake 
in  the  hospital,  was  the  repellent  ghost. 

"Ah,  you  will  not  see  him  die?"  she  urged. 

"  It  seems  to  move  you  greatly  what  happens  to  this 
man,"  he  said,  his  determined  dark  eyes  searching  hers, 
for  she  baffled  him.  If  she  could  feel  so  much  for  a 
"casual,"  why  not  a  little  more  feeling  for  him?  Sud- 
denly, as  he  drew  her  eyes  to  him  again,  there  came 
the  conviction  that  they  were  full  of  feeling  for  him. 

266 


THE    LITTLE    WIDOW    OF    JANSEN 

They  were  sending  a  message,  an  appealing,  passionate 
message,  which  told  him  more  than  he  had  ever  heard 
from  her  or  seen  in  her  face  before.  Yes,  she  was  his! 
Without  a  word  spoken  she  had  told  him  so.  What, 
then,  held  her  back?  But  women  were  a  race  by  them- 
selves, and  he  knew  that  he  must  wait  till  she  chose  to 
have  him  know  what  she  had  unintentionally  conveyed 
but  now. 

"  Yes,  I  am  moved,"  she  continued,  slowly.  "  W^ho 
can  tell  what  this  man  might  do  with  his  life  if  it  is 
saved!  Don't  you  think  of  that?  It  isn't  the  impor- 
tance of  a  life  that's  at  stake;  it's  the  importance  of 
living;  and  we  do  not  live  alone,  do  we?" 

His  mind  was  made  up.  "  I  will  not,  cannot  promise 
anything  till  I  have  seen  him.  But  I  will  go  and  see 
him,  and  I'll  send  you  word  later  what  I  can  do  or  not 
do.  Will  that  satisfy  you?  If  I  cannot  do  it,  I  will 
come  to  say  good-bye." 

Her  face  was  set  with  suppressed  feeling.  She  held 
out  her  hand  to  him  impulsively,  and  was  about  to 
speak,  but  suddenly  caught  the  hand  away  again  from 
his  thrilhng  grasp  and,  turning  hurriedly,  left  the  room. 
In  the  hall  she  met  Father  Bourasso. 

"  Go  with  him  to  the  hospital,"  she  whispered,  and 
disappeared  through  the  doorway. 

Immediately  after  she  had  gone,  a  man  came  driving 
hard  to  bring  Father  Bourassa  to  visit  a  dying  Catholic 
in  the  prairie,  and  it  was  Finden  who  accompanied 
Varley  to  the  hospital,  waited  for  him  till  his  examina- 
tion of  the  "  casual "  was  concluded,  and  met  him  outside. 

"Can  it  be  done?"  he  asked  of  Varley.  "I'll  take 
word  to  Father  Bourassa." 

"  It  can  be  done — it  will  be  done,"  answered  Varley, 
absently.  "  I  do  not  understand  the  man.  He  has 
been  in  a  different  sphere  of  life.  He  tried  to  hide  it, 
but  the  speech — occasionally!     I  wonder." 

267 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"You  wonder  if  he's  worth  saving?" 

Varley  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently.  "No; 
that's  not  what  I  meant." 

Finden  smiled  to  himself.  "Is  it  a  difficult  case?" 
he  asked. 

"Critical  and  delicate;  but  it  has  been  my  specialty." 

"One  of  the  local  doctors  couldn't  do  it,  I  suppose?" 

"They  would  be  foolish  to  try." 

"And  you  are  going  away  at  sunrise  to-morrow?" 

"Who  told  you  that?"  Varley's  voice  was  abrupt, 
impatient. 

"I  heard  you  say  so — everybody  knows  it.  .  .  .  That's 
a  bad  man  3^onder,  Varley."  He  jerked  his  thumb 
toward  the  hospital.  "A  terrible  bad  man,  he's  been. 
A  gentleman  once,  and  fell  down — fell  down  hard.  He's 
done  more  harm  than  most  men.  He's  broken  a  wom- 
an's heart  and  spoiled  her  life,  and,  if  he  lives,  there's 
no  chance  for  her,  none  at  all.  He  killed  a  man,  and 
the  law  wants  him;  and  she  can't  free  herself  without 
ruining  him;  and  she  can't  marry  the  man  she  loves 
because  of  that  villain  yonder,  crying  for  his  life  to  be 
saved.  By  Josh  and  by  Joan,  but  it's  a  shame,  a  dirty 
shame,  it  is!" 

Suddenly  Varley  turned  and  gripped  his  arm  wath 
fingers  of  steel. 

"His  name — his  real  name?" 

"His  name's  Meydon — and  a  dirty  shame  it  is, 
Varley." 

Varley  was  white.  He  had  been  leading  his  horse 
and  talking  to  Finden.  He  mounted  quickly  now,  and 
was  about  to  ride  away,  but  stopped  short  again.  "Who 
knows — who  knows  the  truth?"  he  asked. 

"Father  Bourassa  and  me — no  others,"  he  answered. 
"I  knew  Meydon  thirty  years  ago." 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation,  then  Varley  said, 
hoarsely,  "Tell  me — tell  me  all." 

268 


THE    LITTLE    WIDOW    OF    JANSEN 

When  all  was  told,  he  turned  his  horse  toward  the 
wide  waste  of  the  prairie,  and  galloped  away.  Finden 
watched  him  till  he  was  lost  to  view  beyond  the  bluff. 

"  Now,  a  man  like  that,  you  can't  guess  what  he'll  do," 
he  said,  reflectively.  "He's  a  high-stepper,  and  there's 
no  telling  what  foolishness  will  get  hold  of  him.  It  'd 
be  safer  if  he  got  lost  on  the  prairie  for  twenty-four 
hours.  He  said  that  Meydon's  only  got  twenty-four 
hours,  if  the  trick  isn't  done!     Well — " 

He  took  a  penny  from  his  pocket.  "I'll  toss  for  it. 
Heads  he  does  it,  and  tails  he  doesn't." 

He  tossed.  It  came  down  heads.  "Well,  there's 
one  more  fool  in  the  world  than  I  thought,"  he  said, 
philosophically,  as  though  he  had  settled  the  question; 
as  though  the  man  riding  away  into  the  prairie  with 
a  dark  problem  to  be  solved  had  told  the  penny  what 
he  meant  to  do. 

Mrs.  Meydon,  Father  Bourassa,  and  Finden  stood  in 
the  little  waiting-room  of  the  hospital  at  Jansen,  one 
at  each  window,  and  watched  the  wild  thunderstorm 
which  had  broken  over  the  prairie.  The  white  helio- 
graphs of  the  elements  flashed  their  warnings  across  the 
black  sky,  and  the  roaring  artillery  of  the  thunder  came 
after,  making  the  circle  of  prairie  and  tree  and  stream 
a  theatre  of  anger  and  conflict.  The  streets  of  Jansen 
were  washed  with  flood,  and  the  green  and  gold  things 
of  garden  and  field  and  harvest  crumbled  beneath  the 
sheets  of  rain. 

The  faces  at  the  window  of  the  little  room  of  the 
hospital,  however,  were  but  half-conscious  of  the  storm; 
it  seemed  only  an  accompaniment  of  their  thoughts,  to 
typify  the  elements  of  tragedy  surrounding  them. 

For  Varley  there  had  been  but  one  thing  to  do.  A 
life  might  be  saved,  and  it  was  his  duty  to  save  it.  He 
had  ridden  back  from  the  prairie  as  the  sun  was  setting 

269 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

the  night  before,  and  had  made  all  arrangements  at  the 
hospital,  giving  orders  that  Meydon  should  have  no 
food  whatever  till  the  operation  was  performed  the  next 
afternoon,  and  nothing  to  drink  except  a  little  brandy- 
and-water. 

The  operation  was  performed  successfully,  and  Varley 
had  issued  from  the  operating-room  with  the  look  of  a 
man  who  had  gone  through  an  ordeal  which  had  taxed 
his  nerve  to  the  utmost,  to  find  Valerie  Meydon  waiting, 
with  a  piteous,  dazed  look  in  her  eyes.  But  this  look 
passed  when  she  heard  him  say,  "  All  right!" 

The  words  brought  a  sense  of  relief,  for  if  he  had  failed, 
it  would  have  seemed  almost  unbearable  in  the  circum- 
stances— the  cup  of  trembling  must  be  drunk  to  the 
dregs. 

Few  words  had  passed  between  them,  and  he  had 
gone,  while  she  remained  behind  with  Father  Bourassa, 
till  the  patient  should  wake  from  the  sleep  into  which 
he  had  fallen  when  Varley  left. 

But  within  two  hours  they  sent  for  Varley  again,  for 
Meydon  was  in  evident  danger.  Varley  had  come,  and 
had  now  been  with  the  patient  for  some  time. 

At  last  the  door  opened  and  Varley  came  in  quickly. 
He  beckoned  to  Mrs.  Meydon  and  to  Father  Bourassa. 
"  He  wishes  to  speak  with  you,"  he  said  to  her.  "  There 
is  little  time." 

Her  eyes  scarcely  saw  him,  as  she  left  the  room  and 
passed  to  where  Meydon  lay  nerveless,  but  with  wide- 
open  eyes,  waiting  for  her.  The  eyes  closed,  however, 
before  she  reached  the  bed.  Presently  they  opened 
again,  but  the  lids  remained  fixed.  He  did  not  hear 
what  she  said. 

In  the  little  waiting-room,  Finden  said  to  Varley, 
"What  happened?" 

"  Food  was  absolutely  forbidden,  but  he  got  it  from 

270 


THE    LITTLE    WIDOW    OF    JANSEN 

another  patient  early  this  morning  while  the  nurse  was 
out  for  a  moment.     It  has  killed  him." 

"  'Twas  the  least  he  could  do,  but  no  credit's  due  him. 
It  was  to  be.  I'm  not  envying  Father  Bourassa  nor  her 
there  with  him." 

Varley  made  no  reply.  He  was  watching  the  receding 
storm  with  eyes  which  told  nothing. 

Finden  spoke  once  more,  but  Varley  did  not  hear 
him.  Presently  the  door  opened  and  Father  Bourassa 
entered.  He  made  a  gesture  of  the  hand  to  signify  that 
all  was  over. 

Outside,  the  sun  was  breaking  through  the  clouds 
upon  the  Western  prairie,  and  there  floated  through  the 
evening  air  the  sound  of  a  child's  voice  singing  beneath 
the  trees  that  fringed  the  river: 

"Will  you  come  back,  darlin'?     Never  heed  the  pain  and 
blightin', 
Never  trouble  that  you're  wounded,  that  you  bear  the 
scars  of  fightin'; 

Here's  the  luck  o'  Heaven  to  you, 
Here's  the  hand  of  love  will  brew  you 
The  cup  of  peace — ah,  darlin',  will  you  come  back  home?" 


WATCHING  THE   RISE   OF   ORION 

"In  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the  best,"  and 
the  name  and  fame  of  Terence  O'Ryan  were  known 
from  Strathcona  to  Qu'appelle.  He  had  ambition  of 
several  kinds,  and  he  had  the  virtue  of  not  caring  who 
knew  of  it.  He  had  no  guile,  and  little  money;  but 
never  a  day's  work  was  too  hard  for  him,  and  he  took 
bad  luck,  when  it  came,  with  a  jerk  of  the  shoulder 
and  a  good-natured  surprise  on  his  clean-shaven  face 
that  suited  well  his  wide  gray  eyes  and  large,  luxurious 
mouth.  He  had  an  estate,  half  ranch,  half  farm,  with 
a  French  -  Canadian  manager  named  Vigon,  an  old 
prospector  who  viewed  every  foot  of  land  in  the  world 
with  the  eye  of  the  discoverer.  Gold,  coal,  iron,  oil, 
he  searched  for  them  everywhere,  making  sure  that 
sooner  or  later  he  would  find  them.  Once  Vigon  had 
found  coal.  That  was  when  he  worked  for  a  man  called 
Constantine  Jopp,  and  had  given  him  great  profit;  but 
he,  the  discoverer,  had  been  put  off  with  a  horse  and  a 
hundred  dollars.  He  was  now  as  devoted  to  Terence 
O'Ryan  as  he  had  been  faithful  to  Constantine  Jopp, 
whom  he  cursed  waking  and  sleeping. 

In  his  time  O'Ryan  had  speculated,  and  lost;  he  had 
floated  a  coal-mine,  and  "been  had";  he  had  run  for  the 
local  legislature,  had  been  elected,  and  then  unseated 
for  bribery  committed  by  an  agent;  he  had  run  races 
at  Regina,  and  won — he  had  won  for  three  years  in 
succession;  and  this  had  kept  him  going  and  restored 

272 


WATCHING    THE     RISE    OF    ORION 

his  finances  when  they  were  at  their  worst.  He  was, 
in  truth,  the  best  rider  in  the  country,  and,  so  far, 
was  the  owner  also  of  the  best  three-year-old  that  the 
West  had  produced.  He  achieved  popularity  without 
effort.  The  West  laughed  at  his  enterprises  and  loved 
him;  he  was  at  once  a  public  moral  and  a  hero.  It 
was  a  legend  of  the  West  that  his  forebears  had  been 
kings  in  Ireland  hke  Brian  Boroihme.  He  did  not 
contradict  this;  he  never  contradicted  anything.  His 
challenge  to  all  fun  and  satire  and  misrepresentation 
was,  "  What  'II  be  the  differ  a  himdred  years  from  now!" 

He  did  not  use  this  phrase,  however,  toward  one 
experience — the  advent  of  Miss  Molly  Mackinder,  the 
heiress,  and  the  challenge  that  reverberated  through  the 
West  after  her  arrival.  Philosophy  deserted  him  then; 
he  fell  back  on  the  primary  emotions  of  mankind. 

A  month  after  Miss  Mackinder's  arrival  at  La  Touche 
a  dramatic  performance  was  given  at  the  old  fort,  in 
which  the  officers  of  the  Mounted  Police  took  part, 
together  with  many  civilians  who  fancied  themselves. 
By  that  time  the  district  had  realized  that  Terry  O'Ryan 
had . surrendered  to  what  they  called  "the  laying  on  of 
hands"  by  Molly  Mackinder.  It  was  not  certain,  how- 
ever, that  the  surrender  was  complete,  because  O'Ryan 
had  been  wounded  before,  and  yet  had  not  been  taken 
captive  altogether.  His  complete  surrender  seemed 
now  more  certain  to  the  public  because  the  lady  had  a 
fortune  of  two  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  that 
amount  of  money  would  be  useful  to  an  ambitious  man 
in  the  growing  West.  It  would,  as  Gow  Johnson  said, 
"  Let  him  sit  back  and  view  the  landscape  o'er  before 
he  puts  his  ploughshare  in  the  mud." 

There  was  an  outdoor  scene  in  the  play  produced  by 
the  impetuous  amateurs,  and  dialogue  had  been  inter- 
polated by  three  "imps  of  fame"  at  the  suggestion  of 
Constantine  Jopp,  one  of  the  three,  who  bore  malice 

273 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

toward  O'Ryan,  though  this  his  colleagues  did  not 
know  distinctly.  The  scene  was  a  camp-fire — a  starlit 
night,  a  colloquy  between  the  three,  upon  which  the 
hero  of  the  drama,  played  by  Terry  O'Ryan,  should 
break,  after  having,  unknown  to  them,  but  in  sight  of 
the  audience,  overheard  their  kind .  intentions  toward 
himself. 

The  night  came.  When  the  curtain  rose  for  the  third 
act  there  was  exposed  a  star-sown  sky,  in  which  the 
galaxy  of  Orion  was  shown  with  distinctness,  each  star 
sharply  twinkling  from  the  electric  power  behind — a 
pretty  scene,  evoking  great  applause.  O'Ryan  had 
never  seen  this  back  curtain — they  had  taken  care 
that  he  should  not— and,  standing  in  the  wings  await- 
ing his  cue,  he  was  unprepared  for  the  laughter  of  the 
audience,  first  low  and  uncertain,  then  growing,  then 
insistent,  and  now  a  peal  of  ungovernable  mirth,  as  one 
by  one  they  understood  the  significance  of  the  stars 
of  Orion  on  the  back  curtain. 

O'Ryan  got  his  cue,  and  came  on  to  an  outburst  of  ap- 
plause which  shook  the  walls.  La  Touche  rose  at  him, 
among  them  Miss  Molly  Mackinder  in  the  front  row 
with  the  notables. 

He  did  not  see  the  back  curtain,  or  Orion  blazing  in 
the  ultramarine  blue.  According  to  the  stage  directions, 
he  was  to  steal  along  the  trees  at  the  wings,  and  listen 
to  the  talk  of  the  men  at  the  fire  plotting  against  him, 
who  were  presently  to  pretend  good  comradeship  to  his 
face.  It  was  a  vigorous  melodrama,  with  some  touches 
of  true  Western  feeling.  After  listening  for  a  moment, 
O'Ryan  was  to  creep  up  the  stage  again  toward  the  back 
curtain,  giving  a  cue  for  his  appearance. 

When  the  hilarious  applause  at  his  entrance  had 
somewhat  subsided,  the  three  took  up  their  parable,  but 
it  was  not  the  parable  of  the  play.  They  used  dialogue 
not  in  the  original.     It  had  a  significance  which  the 

274 


WATCHING    THE     RISE    OF    ORION 

audience  were  not  slow  to  appreciate,  and  went  far  to 
turn  The  Sunburst  Trail  at  this  point  into  a  comedy- 
farce.  When  this  new  dialogue  began,  O'Ryan  could 
scarcely  trust  his  ears  or  realize  what  was  happening. 

"Ah,  look,"  said  Dicky  Fergus  at  the  fire,  "as  fine  a 
night  as  I  ever  saw  in  the  West!  The  sky's  a  picture. 
You  could  almost  hand  the  stars  down,  they're  so  near." 

"  What's  that  clump  together  on  the  right  ? — what 
are  they  called  in  astronomy?"  asked  Constantine  Jopp, 
with  a  leer. 

"Orion  is  the  name — a  beauty,  ain't  it?"  answered 
Fergus. 

"I've  been  watching  Orion  rise,"  said  the  third — 
Holden  was  his  name.  "  Many's  the  time  I've  watched 
Orion  rising.  Orion's  the  star  for  me.  Say,  he  wipes 
'em  all  out — right  out.     Watch  him  rising  now." 

By  a  manipulation  of  the  lights  Orion  moved  up  the 
back  curtain  slowly  and  blazed  with  light  nearer  the 
zenith.  And  La  Touche  had  more  than  the  worth  of 
its  money  in  this  opening  to  the  third  act  of  the  play. 
O'Ryan  was  a  favorite,  at  whom  La  Touche  loved  to 
jeer,  and  the  parable  of  the  stars  convulsed  them. 

At  the  first  words  O'Ryan  put  a  hand  on  himself  and 
tried  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  it  all,  but  his  entrance  and 
the  subsequent  applause  had  confused  him.  Presently, 
however,  he  turned  to  the  back  curtain,  as  Orion  moved 
slowly  up  the  heavens,  and  found  the  key  to  the  situa- 
tion. He  gasped.  Then  he  listened  to  the  dialogue, 
which  had  nothing  to  do  with  The  Sunburst  Trail. 

"  What  did  Orion  do,  and  why  does  he  rise  ?  Has 
he  got  to  rise  ?  Why  was  the  gent  called  Orion  in  them 
far-off  days?"  asked  Holden. 

"  He  did  some  hunting  in  his  time — with  a  club," 
Fergus  replied.  "  He  kept  making  hits,  he  did.  Orion 
was  a  spoiler.  When  he  took  the  field  there  was  no 
room   for   the   rest   of   the   race.     Why   does   he   rise? 

»9  275 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Because  it  is  a  habit.  They  could  always  get  a  rise  out 
of  Orion.  The  Athens  Eirenicon  said  that  yeast  might 
fail  to  rise,  but  touch  the  button  and  Orion  would  rise 
like  a  bird." 

At  that  instant  the  galaxy  jerked  up  the  back  curtain 
again,  and,  when  the  audience  could  control  itself, 
Constantine  Jopp,  grinning  meanly,  asked : 

"Why  does  he  wear  the  girdle.'"' 

"It  is  not  a  girdle — it  is  a  belt,"  was  Dicky  Fergus' 
reply.  "The  gods  gave  it  to  him  because  he  was  a 
favorite.  There  was  a  lady  called  Artemis — she  was  the 
last  of  them.  But  he  went  visiting  with  Eos,  another 
lady  of  previous  acquaintance,  down  at  a  place  called 
Ortygia,  and  Artemis  shot  him  dead  with  a  shaft  Apollo 
had  given  her;  but  she  didn't  marry  Apollo  neither. 
She  laid  Orion  out  on  the  sky,  with  his  glittering  belt 
around  him.     And  Orion  keeps  on  rising." 

"Will  he  ever  stop  rising?"  asked  Holden. 

Followed  for  the  conspirators  a  disconcerting  moment ; 
for,  when  the  laughter  had  subsided,  a  lazy  voice  came 
from  the  back  of  the  hall,  "  He'll  stop  long  enough  to 
play  with  Apollo  a  little,  I  guess." 

It  was  Gow  Johnson  who  had  spoken,  and  no  man 
knew  Terry  O'Ryan  better,  or  could  gauge  more  truly 
the  course  he  would  take.  He  had  been  in  many  an 
enterprise,  many  a  brush  with  O'Ryan,  and  his  friendship 
would  bear  any  strain. 

O'Ryan  recovered  himself  from  the  moment  he  saw 
the  back  curtain,  and  he  did  not  find  any  fun  in  the 
thing.  It  took  a  hold  on  him  out  of  all  proportion 
to  its  importance.  He  realized  that  he  had  come  to 
the  parting  of  the  ways  in  his  life.  It  suddenly  came 
upon  him  that  something  had  been  lacking  in  him 
in  the  past,  and  that  his  want  of  success  in  many  things 
had  not  been  wholly  due  to  bad  luck.  He  had  been 
eager,    enterprising,    a    genius    almost    at    seeing    good 

276 


WATCHING    THE    RISE    OF    ORION 

things;  and  yet  others  had  reaped  where  he  had  sown. 
He  had  beUeved  too  much  in  his  fellow-man.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  resented  the  friendly,  almost 
affectionate  satire  of  his  many  friends.  It  was  amusing, 
it  was  delightful;  but  down  beneath  it  all  there  was  a 
little  touch  of  ridicule.  He  had  more  brains  than  any 
of  them,  and  he  had  known  it  in  a  way;  he  had  led 
them  sometimes,  too,  as  on  raids  against  cattle-stealers, 
and  in  a  brush  with  half-breeds  and  Indians;  as  when 
he  stood  for  the  legislature;  but  he  felt  now  for  the  first 
time  that  he  had  not  made  the  most  of  himself,  that  there 
was  something  hurting  to  self-respect  in  this  prank 
played  upon  him.  When  he  came  to  that  point  his 
resentment  went  higher.  He  thought  of  Molly  Mac- 
kinder,  and  he  heard  all  too  acutely  the  vague  veiled 
references  to  her  in  their  satire.  By  the  time  Gow 
Johnson  spoke  he  had  mastered  himself,  however,  and 
had  made  up  his  mind.     He  stood  still  for  a  moment. 

"  Now,  please,  my  cue,"  he  said,  quietly  and  satirically 
from  the  trees  near  the  wings. 

He  was  smiling,  but  Gow  Johnson's  prognostication 
was  right;  and  ere  long  the  audience  realized  that  he 
was  right.  There  was  standing  before  them  not  the 
Terry  O'Ryan  they  had  known,  but  another.  He  threw 
himself  fully  into  his  part — a  young  rancher  made  deputy- 
sheriff,  who  by  the  occasional  exercise  of  his  duty  had 
incurred  the  hatred  of  a  small  floating  population  that 
lived  by  fraud,  violence,  and  cattle-stealing.  The  con- 
spiracy was  to  raid  his  cattle,  to  lure  him  to  pursuit, 
to  ambush  him,  and  kill  him.  Terry  now  played  the 
part  with  a  naturalness  and  force  which  soon  lifted  the 
play  away  from  the  farcical  element  introduced  into  it  by 
those  who  had  interpolated  the  gibes  at  himself.  They 
had  gone  a  step  too  far. 

"  He's  going  large,"  said  Gow  Johnson,  as  the  act  drew 
near  its  close  and  the  climax  neared  where  O'Ryan  was 

277 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

to  enter  upon  a  physical  struggle  with  his  assailants. 
"  His  blood's  up.     There'll  be  hell  to  pay." 

To  Gow  Johnson  the  play  had  instantly  become 
real,  and  O'Ryan  an  injured  man  at  bay,  the  victim  of 
the  act — not  of  the  fictitious  characters  of  the  play, 
but  of  the  three  men,  Fergus,  Holden,  and  Constantino 
Jopp,  who  had  planned  the  discomfiture  of  O'Ryan; 
and  he  felt  that  the  victim's  resentment  would  fall 
heaviest  on  Constantine  Jopp,  the  bully,  an  old  school- 
mate of  Terry's. 

Jopp  was  older  than  O'Ryan  by  three  years,  which 
in  men  is  little,  but  in  boys,  at  a  certain  time  of  life, 
is  much.  It  means,  generally,  weight  and  height,  an 
advantage  in  a  scrimmage.  Constantine  Jopp  had  been 
the  plague  and  tyrant  of  O' Ryan's  boyhood.  He  was 
now  a  big,  leering  fellow,  with  much  money  of  his  own, 
got  chiefly  from  the  coal  discovered  on  his  place  by 
Vigon,  the  half-breed  French  -  Canadian.  He  had  a 
sense  of  dark  and  malicious  humor,  a  long,  horse-like 
face,  with  little,  beady  eyes,  and  a  huge  frame. 

Again  and  again  had  Terry  fought  him  as  a  boy 
at  school,  and  often  he  had  been  badly  whipped,  but 
he  had  never  refused  the  challenge  of  an  insult  when 
he  was  twelve  and  Jopp  fifteen.  The  climax  to  their 
enmity  at  school  had  come  one  day  when  Terry  was 
seized  with  a  cramp  while  bathing,  and  after  having 
gone  down  twice  was  rescued  by  Jopp,  who  dragged 
him  out  by  the  hair  of  the  head.  He  had  been  restored 
to  consciousness  on  the  bank  and  carried  to  his  home, 
where  he  lay  ill  for  days.  During  the  course  of  the 
slight  fever  which  followed  the  accident  his  hair  was 
cut  close  to  his  head.  Impetuous  always,  his  first 
thought  was  to  go  and  thank  Constantine  Jopp  for 
having  saved  his  life.  As  soon  as  he  was  able  he  went 
forth  to  find  his  rescuer,  and  met  him  suddenly  on 
turning  a  corner  of  the  street.     Before  he  could  stammer 

278 


WATCHING    THE    RISE    OF    ORION 

out  the  gratitude  that  was  in  his  heart,  Jopp,  eying  him 
with  a  sneering  smile,  said,  drawUngly: 

"  If  you'd  had  your  hair  cut  Uke  that  I  couldn't  have 
got  you  out,  could  I?  Holy,  what  a  sight!  Next  time 
I'll  take  you  by  the  scruff,  putty  face — bah!" 

That  was  enough  for  Terry.  He  had  swallowed  the 
insult,  stuttered  his  thanks  to  the  jeering  laugh  of  the 
lank  bully,  and  had  gone  home  and  cried  in  shame  and 
rage. 

It  was  the  one  real  shadow  in  his  life.  Ill-luck  and 
good-luck  had  been  taken  with  an  equable  mind;  but 
the  fact  that  he  must,  while  he  lived,  own  the  supreme 
debt  of  his  life  to  a  boy  and  afterward  to  a  man  whom 
he  hated  by  instinct  was  a  constant  cloud  on  him.  Jopp 
owned  him.  For  some  years  they  did  not  meet,  and 
then  at  last  they  again  were  thrown  together  in  the  West, 
when  Jopp  settled  at  La  Touche.  It  was  gall  and  worm- 
wood to  Terry,  but  he  steeled  himself  to  be  friendly, 
although  the  man  was  as  great  a  bully  as  the  boy,  as 
offensive  in  mind  and  character;  but  withal  acute  and 
able  in  his  way,  and  with  a  reputation  for  commercial 
sharpness  which  would  be  called  by  another  name  in  a 
different  civilization.  They  met  constantly,  and  O'Ryan 
always  put  a  hand  on  himself,  and  forced  himself  to  be 
friendly.  Once  when  Jopp  became  desperately  ill  there 
had  been — though  he  fought  it  down,  and  condemned 
himself  in  every  term  of  reproach — a  sense  of  relief  in 
the  thought  that  perhaps  his  ancient  debt  would  now  be 
cancelled.  It  had  gone  on  so  long.  And  Constantine 
Jopp  had  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  vexing  him,  of 
turturing  him,  of  giving  veiled  thrusts,  which  he  knew 
O'Ryan  could  not  resent.  It  was  the  constant  pin-piick 
of  a  mean  soul,  who  had  an  advantage  of  which  he  could 
never  be  dispossessed — unless  the  ledger  was  balanced 
in  some  inscrutable  way. 

Apparently  bent  on  amusement  only,  and  hiding  his 

279 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

hatred  from  his  colleagues,  Jopp  had  been  the  instigator 
and  begetter  of  the  huge  joke  of  the  play;  but  it  was 
the  brains  of  Dick  Fergus  which  had  carried  it  out, 
written  the  dialogue,  and  planned  the  electric  appli- 
ances of  the  back  curtain — for  he  was  an  engineer  and 
electrician.  Neither  he  nor  Holden  had  known  the 
old  antipathy  of  Terry  and  Constantine  Jopp.  There 
was  only  one  man  who  knew  the  whole  truth,  and  that 
was  Gow  Johnson,  to  whom  Terry  had  once  told  all. 
At  the  last  moment  Fergus  had  interpolated  certain 
points  in  the  dialogue  which  were  not  even  included  at 
rehearsal.  These  referred  to  Apollo.  He  had  a  shrewd 
notion  that  Jopp  had  an  idea  of  marrying  Molly  Mac- 
kinder  if  he  could,  cousins  though  they  were;  and  he 
was  also  aware  that  Jopp,  knowing  Molly's  liking  for 
Terry,  had  tried  to  poison  her  mind  against  him,  through 
suggestive  gossip  about  a  little  widow  at  Jansen,  thirty 
miles  away.  He  had  in  so  far  succeeded  that,  on  the 
very  day  of  the  performance,  Molly  had  declined  to  be 
driven  home  from  the  race-course  by  Terry,  despite  the 
fact  that  Terry  had  won  the  chief  race  and  owned  the 
only  dog-cart  in  the  West. 

As  the  day  went  on,  Fergus  realized,  as  had  Gow 
Johnson,  that  Jopp  had  raised  a  demon.  The  air  was 
electric.  The  play  was  drawing  near  to  its  climax — an 
attempt  to  capture  the  deputy-sheriff,  tie  him  to  a  tree, 
and  leave  him  bound  and  gagged  alone  in  the  waste. 
There  was  a  glitter  in  Terry's  eyes,  belying  the  lips 
which  smiled  in  keeping  with  the  character  he  presented. 
A  look  of  harshness  was  stamped  on  his  face,  and  the 
outlines  of  the  temples  were  as  sharp  as  the  chin  was  set 
and  the  voice  slow  and  penetrating. 

Molly  Mackinder's  eyes  were  riveted  on  him.  She 
sat  very  still,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  watching  his 
every  move.  Instinct  told  her  that  Terry  was  holding 
himself  in;  that  some  latent  fierceness  and  iron  force 

280 


WATCHING    THE    RISE    OF    ORION 

in  liim  had  emerged  into  life;  and  that  he  meant  to 
have  revenge  on  Constantine  Jopp  one  way  or  another, 
and  that  soon;  for  she  had  heard  the  rumor  flying 
through  the  hall  that  her  cousin  was  the  cause  of  the 
practical  joke  just  played.  From  hints  she  had  had 
from  Constantine  that  very  day  she  knew  that  the 
rumor  was  the  truth ;  and  she  recalled  now  with  shrink- 
ing dislike  the  grimace  accompanying  the  suggestion. 
She  had  not  resented  it  then,  being  herself  angry  with 
Terry  because  of  the  little  widow  at  Jansen. 

Presently  the  silence  in  the  hall  became  acute;  the 
senses  of  the  audience  were  strained  to  the  utmost. 
The  acting  before  them  was  more  realistic  than  any- 
thing they  had  ever  seen,  or  were  ever  likely  to  see 
again  in  La  Touche.  All  three  conspirators,  Fergus, 
Holden,  and  Jopp,  realized  that  O'Ryan's  acting  had 
behind  it  an  animal  anger  which  transformed  him. 
When  he  looked  into  their  eyes  it  was  with  a  steely 
directness  harder  and  fiercer  than  was  observed  by  the 
audience.  Once  there  was  an  occasion  for  O'Ryan  to 
catch  Fergus  by  the  arm,  and  Fergus  winced  from  the 
grip.  When  standing  in  the  wings  with  Terry  he 
ventured  to  apologize  playfully  for  the  joke,  but  Terry 
made  no  answer;  and  once  again  he  had  whispered 
good-naturedly  as  they  stood  together  on  the  stage; 
but  the  reply  had  been  a  low,  scornful  laugh.  Fergus 
realized  that  a  critical  moment  was  at  hand.  The  play 
provided  for  some  dialogue  between  Jopp  and  Terry, 
and  he  observed  with  anxiety  that  Terry  now  inter- 
polated certain  phrases  meant  to  warn  Constantine,  and 
to  excite  him  to  anger  also. 

The  moment  came  upon  them  sooner  than  the  text 
of  the  play  warranted.  O'Ryan  deliberately  left  out 
several  sentences,  and  gave  a  later  cue,  and  the  struggle 
for  his  capture  was  precipitated.  Terry  meant  to  make 
the  struggle  real.     So  thrilling  had  been  the  scene  that 

281 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

to  an  extent  the  audience  was  prepared  for  what  fol- 
lowed; but  they  did  not  grasp  the  full  reality — that 
the  play  was  now  only  a  vehicle  for  a  personal  issue 
of  a  desperate  character.  No  one  had  ever  seen  O'Ryan 
angry;  and  now  that  the  demon  of  rage  was  on  him, 
directed  by  a  will  suddenly  grown  to  its  full  height, 
they  saw  not  only  a  powerful  character  in  a  powerful 
melodrama,  but  a  man  of  wild  force.  When  the  three 
desperadoes  closed  in  on  O'Ryan,  and,  with  a  blow 
from  the  shoulder  which  was  not  a  pretence,  he  sent 
Holden  into  a  far  corner  gasping  for  breath  and  moan- 
ing with  pain,  the  audience  broke  out  into  wild  cheering. 
It  was  superb  acting,  they  thought.  As  most  of  them 
had  never  seen  the  play,  they  were  not  surprised  when 
Holden  did  not  again  join  the  attack  on  the  deputy- 
sheriff.  Those  who  did  know  the  drama — among  them 
Molly  Mackinder — became  dismayed,  then  anxious. 

Fergus  and  Jopp  knew  well  from  the  blow  O'Ryan 
had  given  that,  unless  they  could  drag  him  down,  the 
end  must  be  disaster  to  some  one.  They  were  struggling 
with  him  for  personal  safety  now.  The  play  was  for- 
gotten, though  mechanically  O'Ryan  and  Fergus  re- 
peated the  exclamations  and  the  few  phrases  belong- 
ing to  the  part.  Jopp  was  silent,  fighting  with  a  malice 
which  belongs  to  only  half-breed,  or  half-bred,  natures; 
and  from  far  back  in  his  own  nature  the  distant  Indian 
strain  in  him  was  working  in  savage  hatred.  The  two 
were  desperately  hanging  onto  O'Ryan  like  pumas  on 
a  grizzly,  when  suddenly,  with  a  twist  he  had  learned 
from  Ogami  the  Jap  on  the  Smoky  River,  the  slim 
Fergus  was  slung  backward  to  the  ground  with  the  ten- 
dons of  his  arm  strained  and  the  arm  itself  useless  for 
further  work.  There  remained  now  Constantine  Jopp, 
heavier  and  more  powerful  than  O'Ryan. 

For  O'Ryan  the  theatre,  the  people,  disappeared. 
He  was  a  boy   again   on  the   village  -  green,  with   the 

282 


WATCHING    THE    RISE    OF    ORION 

bully  before  him  who  had  tortured  his  young  days. 
He  forgot  the  old  debt  to  the  foe  who  saved  his  life; 
he  forgot  everything  except  that  once  again,  as  of  old, 
Constantino  Jopp  was  fighting  him,  with  long,  strong 
arms  trying  to  bring  him  to  the  ground.  Jopp's  superior 
height  gave  him  an  advantage  in  a  close  grip;  the 
strength  of  his  gorilla-like  arms  was  difficult  to  with- 
stand. Both  were  forgetful  of  the  world,  and  the  two 
other  injured  men,  silent  and  awed,  were  watching  the 
fight,  in  which  one  of  them,  at  least,  was  powerless  to 
take  part. 

The  audience  was  breathless.  Most  now  saw  the 
grim  reality  of  the  scene  before  them;  and  when  at 
last  O'Ryan's  powerful  right  hand  got  a  grip  upon  the 
throat  of  Jopp,  and  they  saw  the  grip  tighten,  tighten, 
and  Jopp's  face  go  from  red  to  purple,  a  hundred  people 
gasped.  Excited  men  made  as  though  to  move  toward 
the  stage;  but  the  majority  still  believed  that  it  all 
belonged  to  the  play,  and  shouted,  "Sit  down!" 

Suddenly  the  voice  of  Gow  Johnson  was  heard: 
"Don't  kill  him— let  go,  boy!" 

The  voice  rang  out  with  sharp  anxiety,  and  pierced 
the  fog  of  passion  and  rage  in  which  O'Ryan  was  moving. 
He  realized  what  he  was  doing,  the  real  sense  of  it  came 
upon  him.  Suddenly  he  let  go  the  lank  throat  of  his 
enemy,  and,  by  a  supreme  effort,  flung  him  across  the 
stage,  where  Jopp  lay  resting  on  his  hands,  his  bleared 
eyes  looking  at  Terry  with  the  fear  and  horror  still 
in  them  which  had  come  with  that  tightening  grip  on 
his  throat. 

Silence  fell  suddenly  on  the  theatre.  The  audience 
was  standing.  A  woman  sobbed  somewhere  in  a  far 
corner,  but  the  rest  were  dismayed  and  speechless. 
A  few  steps  before  them  all  was  Molly  Mackinder, 
white  and  frightened,  but  in  her  eyes  was  a  look  of 
understanding  as  she  gazed  at  Terry.     Breathing  hard, 

283 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Terry  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  the  red  fog 
not  yet  gone  out  of  his  eyes,  his  hands  clasped  at  his 
side,  vaguely  realizing  the  audience  again.  Behind  him 
was  the  back  curtain,  in  which  the  lights  of  Orion  twinkled 
aggressively.  The  three  men  who  had  attacked  him 
were  still  where  he  had  thrown  them. 

The  silence  was  intense,  the  strain  oppressive.  But 
now  a  drawling  voice  came  from  the  back  of  the  hall. 

"Are  you  watching  the  rise  of  Orion?"  it  said.  It 
was  the  voice  of  Gow  Johnson. 

The  strain  was  broken;  the  audience  dissolved  in 
laughter;  but  it  was  not  hilarious;  it  was  the  nervous 
laughter  of  relief,  touched  off  by  a  native  humor  always 
present  in  the  dweller  of  the  prairie. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Terry,  quietly  and  ab- 
stractedly, to  the  audience. 

And  the  scene-shifter  bethought  himself  and  let  down 
the  curtain. 

The  fourth  act  was  not  played  that  night.  The  peo- 
ple had  had  more  than  the  worth  of  their  money.  In 
a  few  moments  the  stage  was  crowded  with  people  from 
the  audience,  but  both  Jopp  and  O'Ryan  had  disappeared. 

Among  the  visitors  to  the  stage  was  Molly  Mackinder. 
There  was  a  meaning  smile  upon  her  face  as  she  said 
to  Dicky  Fergus: 

"  It  was  quite  wonderful,  wasn't  it — like  a  scene  out 
of  the  classics — the  gladiators  or  something?" 

Fergus  gave  a  wary  smile  as  he  answered :  "  Yes.  I 
felt  like  saying  'Ave,  Ccrsar,  ave!'  and  I  watched  to  see 
Artemis  drop  her  handkerchief." 

"  She  dropped  it,  but  you  were  too  busy  to  pick  it  up. 
It  would  have  been  a  useful  sling  for  your  arm,"  she 
added,  with  thoughtful  malice.  "  It  seemed  so  real — 
you  all  acted  so  well,  so  appropriately.  And  how  you 
keep  it  up!"  she  added,  as  he  cringed  when  some  one 
knocked  against  his  elbow,  hurting  the  injured  tendons. 

284 


WATCHING    THE    RISE    OF    ORION 

Fergus  looked  at  her  meditatively  before  he  answered. 
"Oh,  I  think  we'll  likely  keep  it  up  for  some  time," 
he  rejoined,  ironically. 

"Then  the  play  isn't  finished?"  she  added.  "There 
is  another  act?  Yes,  I  thought  there  was;  the  pro- 
gramme said  four.." 

"Oh  yes,  there's  another  act,"  he  answered,  "but 
it  isn't  to  be  played  now;  and  I'm  not  in  it." 

"  No,  I  suppose  you  are  not  in  it.  You  really  weren't 
in  the  last  act.     Who  will  be  in  it?" 

Fergus  suddenly  laughed  outright  as  he  looked  at 
Holden  expostulating  intently  to  a  crowd  of  people 
round  him.  "  Well,  honor  bright,  I  don't  think  there'll 
be  anybody  in  it  except  little  Conny  Jopp  and  gentle 
Terry  O'Ryan;  and  Conny  mayn't  be  in  it  very  long. 
But  he'll  be  in  it  for  a  while,  I  guess.  You  see,  the  cur- 
tain came  down  in  the  middle  of  a  situation,  not  at  the 
end  of  it.     The  curtain  has  to  rise  again." 

"Perhaps  Orion  will  rise  again  —  you  think  so?" 
She  laughed  in  satire;  for  Dicky  Fergus  had  made  love 
to  her  during  the  last  three  months  with  unsuppressed 
activity,  and  she  knew  him  in  his  sentimental  moments; 
which  is  fatal.  It  is  fatal  if,  in  a  duet,  one  breathes 
fire  and  the  other  frost. 

"  If  you  want  my  opinion,"  he  said,  in  a  lower  voice, 
as  they  moved  toward  the  door,  while  people  tried  to 
listen  to  them — "  if  you  want  it  straight,  I  think  Orion 
has  risen — right  up  where  shines  the  evening  star — 
Oh,  say,  now,"  he  broke  off,  "haven't  you  had  enough 
fun  out  of  me  ?  I  tell  you,  it  was  touch  and  go.  He 
nearly  broke  my  arm — would  have  done  it,  if  I  hadn't 
gone  limp  to  him;  and  your  cousin  Conny  Jopp,  little 
Conny  Jopp,  was  as  near  Kingdom  Come  as  a  man 
wants  at  his  age.  I  saw  an  elephant  go  must  once  in 
India,  and  it  was  as  like  O'Ryan  as  putty  is  to  dough. 
It  isn't  all  over,  either,  for  O'Ryan  will  forget  and  for- 

28s 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

give,  and  Jopp  won't.  He's  your  cousin,  but  he's  a  sulker. 
If  he  has  to  sit  up  nights  to  do  it,  he'll  try  to  get  back 
on  O'Ryan.  He'll  sit  up  nights,  but  he'll  do  it,  if  he 
can.     And,  whatever  it  is,  it  won't  be  pretty." 

Outside  the  door  they  met  Gow  Johnson,  excitement 
in  his  eyes.     He  heard  Fergus'  last  words. 

"He'll  see  Orion  rising  if  he  sits  up  nights,"  Gow 
Johnson  said.     "The  game  is  with  Terry — at  last." 

Then  he  called  to  the  dispersing,  gossiping  crowd: 
"  Hold  on — hold  on,  you  people !  I've  got  news  for 
you.  Folks,  this  is  O' Ryan's  night.  It's  his  in  the  starry 
firmament.  Look  at  him  shine!"  he  cried,  stretching 
out  his  arm  toward  the  heavens,  where  the  glittering 
galaxy  hung  near  the  zenith.  "Terry  O'Ryan  —  our 
O'Ryan — he's  struck  oil — on  his  ranch  it's  been  struck. 
Old  Vigon  found  it.  Terry's  got  his  own  at  last. 
O'Ryan's  in  it — in  it  alone.  Now,  let's  hear  the  prairie- 
whisper!"  he  shouted,  in  a  great,  raucous  voice.  "Let's 
hear  the  prairie- whisper !     What  is  it.'"' 

The  crowd  responded  in  a  hoarse  shout  for  O'Ryan 
and  his  fortune.  Even  the  women  shouted — all  except 
Molly  Mackinder.  She  was  wondering  if  O'Ryan  risen 
would  be  the  same  to  her  as  O'Ryan  rising.  She  got 
into  her  carriage  with  a  sigh,  though  she  said  to  the  few 
friends  with  her: 

"  If  it's  true,  it's  splendid.  He  deserves  it,  too.  Oh, 
I'm  glad — I'm  so  glad!"  She  laughed;  but  the  laugh 
was  a  little  hysterical. 

She  was  both  glad  and  sorry.  Yet  as  she  drove  home 
over  the  prairie  she  was  silent.  Far  off  in  the  east  was 
a  bright  Hght.  It  was  a  bonfire  built  on  O'Ryan's  ranch, 
near  where  he  had  struck  oil  —  struck  it  rich.  The 
light  grew  and  grew,  and  the  prairie  was  alive  with  peo- 
ple hurrying  toward  it.  La  Touche  should  have  had  the 
news  hours  earlier,  but  the  half-breed  French-Canadian, 
Vigon,  who  had  made  the  discovery,  and  had  started 

286 


WATCHING    THE    RISE    OF    ORION 

for  La  Touche  with  the  news,  went  suddenly  off  his 
head  with  excitement,  and  had  ridden  away  into  the 
prairie  fiercely  shouting  his  joy  to  an  invisible  world. 
The  news  had  been  brought  in  later  by  a  farm-hand. 

Terry  O'Ryan  had  really  struck  oil,  and  his  ranch  was 
a  scene  of  decent  revelry,  of  which  Gow  Johnson  was 
master.  But  the  central  figure  of  it  all,  the  man  who 
had,  in  truth,  risen  like  a  star,  had  become  to  La  Touche 
all  at  once  its  notoriety  as  well  as  its  favorite,  its  great 
man  as  well  as  its  friend,  he  was  nowhere  to  be  foimd. 
He  had  been  seen  riding  full  speed  into  the  prairie  toward 
the  Kourmash  Wood,  and  the  starlit  night  had  swallowed 
him.  Constantine  Jopp  had  also  disappeared;  but  at 
first  no  one  gave  that  thought  or  consideration. 

As  the  night  went  on,  however,  a  feeling  began  to  stir 
which  it  is  not  good  to  rouse  in  frontier  lands.  It  is 
sure  to  exhibit  itself  in  forms  more  objective  than  are 
found  in  great  populations  where  methods  of  punish- 
ment are  various,  and  even  when  deadly  are  often  re- 
fined. But  society  in  new  places  has  only  limited 
resources,  and  is  thrown  back  on  primary  ways  and 
means.  La  Touche  was  no  exception,  and  the  keener 
spirits,  to  whom  O'Ryan  had  ever  been  "a  white  man," 
and  who  so  rejoiced  in  his  good  -  luck  now  that  they 
drank  his  health  a  hundred  times  in  his  own  whiskey 
and  cider,  were  simmering  with  desire  for  a  public 
reproval  of  Constantine  Jopp's  conduct.  Though  it  was 
pointed  out  to  them  by  the  astute  Gow  Johnson  that 
Fergus  and  Holden  had  participated  in  the  colossal 
joke  of  the  play,  they  had  learned  indirectly  also  the 
whole  truth  concerning  the  past  of  the  two  men.  They 
realized  that  Fergus  and  Holden  had  been  duped  by 
Jopp  into  the  escapade.  Their  primitive  sense  of  justice 
exonerated  the  humorists  and  arraigned  the  one  mali- 
cious man.     As  the  night  wore  on  they  decided  on  the 

287 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

punishment  to  be  meted  out  by  La  Touche  to  the  man 
who  had  not  "acted  on  the  square." 

Gow  Johnson  saw,  too  late,  that  he  had  roused  a  spirit 
as  hard  to  appease  as  the  demon  roused  in  O'Ryan 
earher  in  the  evening.  He  would  have  enjoyed  the 
battue  of  punishment  under  ordinary  circumstances;  but 
he  knew  that  Miss  Molly  Mackinder  would  be  humiliated 
and  indignant  at  the  half-savage  penalty  they  meant  to 
exact.  He  had  determined  that  O'Ryan  should  marry 
her;  and  this  might  be  an  obstruction  in  the  path.  It 
was  true  that  O'Ryan  now  would  be  a  rich  man — one 
of  the  richest  in  the  West,  unless  all  signs  failed;  but, 
meanwhile,  a  union  of  fortunes  would  only  be  an  added 
benefit.  Besides,  he  had  seen  that  O'Ryan  was  in 
earnest,  and  what  O'Ryan  wanted  he  himself  wanted 
even  more  strongly.  He  was  not  concerned  greatly  for 
O' Ryan's  absence.  He  guessed  that  Terry  had  ridden 
away  into  the  night  to  work  off  the  dark  spirit  that  was 
on  him,  to  have  it  out  with  himself.  Gow  Johnson  was 
a  philosopher.  He  was  twenty  years  older  than  O'Ryan, 
and  he  had  studied  his  friend  as  a  pious  monk  his  missal. 

He  was  right  in  his  judgment.  When  Terry  left  the 
theatre  he  was  like  one  in  a  dream,  every  nerve  in  his 
body  at  tension,  his  head  aflame,  his  pulses  throbbing. 
For  miles  he  rode  away  into  the  waste  along  the  north- 
ern trail,  ever  away  from  La  Touche  and  his  own  home. 
He  did  not  know  of  the  great  good -fortune  that  had 
come  to  him;  and  if,  in  this  hour,  he  had  known,  he  would 
not  have  cared.  As  he  rode  on  and  on  remorse  drew 
him  into  its  grasp.  Shame  seized  him  that  he  had  let 
passion  be  his  master,  that  he  had  lost  his  self-control, 
had  taken  a  revenge  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  injury 
and  insult  to  himself.  It  did  not  ease  his  mind  that  he 
knew  Constantine  Jopp  had  done  the  thing  out  of  mean- 
ness and  malice;  for  he  was  alive  to-night  in  the  light 
of  the  stars,  with  the  sweet,  crisp  air  blowing  in  his  face, 

288 


WATCHING    THE    RISE    OF    ORION 

because  of  an  act  of  courage  on  the  part  of  his  school- 
days' foe.  He  remembered  now  that,  when  he  was 
drowning,  he  had  clung  to  Jopp  with  frenzied  arms 
and  had  endangered  the  bully's  life  also.  The  long 
torture  of  owing  this  debt  to  so  mean  a  soul  was  on  him 
still,  was  rooted  in  him;  but  suddenly,  in  the  silent, 
searching  night,  some  spirit  whispered  in  his  ear  that 
this  was  the  price  which  he  must  pay  for  his  life  saved 
to  the  world,  a  compromise  with  the  Inexorable  Thing. 
On  the  verge  of  oblivion  and  the  end,  he  had  been 
snatched  back  by  relenting  Fate,  which  requires  some- 
thing for  something  given  when  laws  are  overriden  and 
doom  defeated.  Yes,  the  price  he  was  meant  to  pay 
was  gratitude  to  one  of  shrivelled  soul  and  innate  an- 
tipathy; and  he  had  not  been  man  enough  to  see  the 
trial  through  to  the  end!  With  a  little  increased  strain 
put  upon  his  vanity  and  pride,  he  had  run  amuck.  Like 
some  heathen  gladiator,  he  had  ravaged  in  the  ring. 
He  had  gone  down  into  the  basements  of  human  life 
and  there  made  a  cockpit  for  his  animal  rage,  till,  in 
the  contest,  brain  and  intellect  had  been  saturated  by 
the  fumes  and  sweat  of  fleshly  fury. 

How  quiet  the  night  was,  how  soothing  to  the  fevered 
mind  and  body,  how  the  cool  air  laved  the  heated  head 
and  flushed  the  lungs  of  the  rheum  of  passion !  He 
rode  on  and  on,  farther  and  farther  away  from  home,  his 
back  upon  the  scenes  where  his  daily  deeds  were  done. 
It  was  long  past  midnight  before  he  turned  his  horse's 
head  again  homeward. 

Buried  in  his  thoughts,  now  calm  and  determined, 
with  a  new  life  grown  up  in  him,  a  new  strength  different 
from  the  mastering  force  which  gave  him  a  strength 
in  the  theatre  like  one  in  a  delirium,  he  noticed  nothing. 
He  was  only  conscious  of  the  omniscient  night  and  its 
warm,  penetrating  friendliness;  as,  in  a  great  trouble, 
when  no  words  can  be  spoken,  a  cool,  kind  palm  steals 

289 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

into  the  trembling  hand  of  misery  and  stills  it,  gives  it 
strength  and  life  and  an  even  pulse.  He  was  now  master 
in  the  house  of  his  soul,  and  had  no  fear  or  doubt  as  to 
the  future  or  as  to  his  course. 

His  first  duty  was  to  go  to  Constantine  Jopp  and 
speak  his  regret  like  a  man.  And  after  that  it  would 
be  his  duty  to  carry  a  double  debt  his  life  long  for  the 
life  saved,  for  the  wrong  done.  He  owed  an  apology 
to  La  Touche,  and  he  was  scarcely  aware  that  the 
native  gentlemanliness  in  him  had  said  through  his 
fever  of  passion  over  the  footlights,  "  I  beg  your  pardon." 
In  his  heart  he  felt  that  he  had  offered  a  mean  affront 
to  every  person  present,  to  the  town  where  his  interests 
lay,  where  his  heart  lay. 

Where  his  heart  lay — Molly  Mackinder!  He  knew 
now  that  vanity  had  something  to  do,  if  not  all  to  do, 
with  his  violent  acts,  and  though  there  suddenly  shot 
through  his  mind,  as  he  rode  back,  a  savage  thrill  at  the 
remembrance  of  how  he  had  handled  the  three,  it  was 
only  a  passing  emotion.  He  was  bent  on  putting 
himself  right  with  Jopp  and  with  La  Touche.  With 
the  former  his  way  was  clear;  he  did  not  yet  see  his 
way  as  to  La  Touche.  How  would  he  be  able  to  make 
the  amende  honorable  to  La  Touche? 

By- and -by  he  became  somewhat  less  absorbed  and 
enveloped  by  the  comforting  night.  He  saw  the 
glimmer  of  red  light  afar,  and  vaguely  wondered  what  it 
was.  It  was  in  the  direction  of  O'Ryan's  Ranch,  but  he 
thought  nothing  of  it,  because  it  burned  steadily.  It 
was  probably  a  fire  lighted  by  settlers  trailing  to  the 
farther  North.  While  the  night  wore  on  he  rode  as 
slowly  back  to  the  town  as  he  had  galloped  from  it 
like  a  centaur  with  a  captive. 

Again  and  again  Molly  Mackinder's  face  came  before 
him,  but  he  resolutely  shut  it  out  of  his  thoughts.  He 
felt  that  he  had  no  right  to  think  of  her  until  he  had 

290 


WATCHING    THE    RISE    OF    ORION 

"done  the  right  thing"  by  Jopp  and  by  La  Touche. 
Yet  the  look  in  her  face  as  the  curtain  came  down, 
it  was  not  that  of  one  indifferent  to  him  or  to  what  he 
did.  He  neared  the  town  half-way  between  midnight 
and  morning.  Almost  unconsciously  avoiding  the  main 
streets,  he  rode  a  roundabout  way  toward  the  little 
house  where  Constantine  Jopp  lived.  He  could  hear 
loud  noises  in  the  streets,  singing,  and  hoarse  shouts. 
Then  silence  came,  then  shouts,  and  silence  again.  It 
was  all  quiet  as  he  rode  up  to  Jopp's  house,  standing 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  There  was  a  bright  light 
in  the  window  of  a  room. 

Jopp,  then,  was  still  up.  He  would  not  wait  till 
to-morrow.  He  would  do  the  right  thing  now.  He 
would  put  things  straight  with  his  foe  before  he  slept; 
he  would  do  it  at  any  sacrifice  to  his  pride.  He  had 
conquered  his  pride. 

He  dismounted,  threw  the  bridle  over  a  post,  and, 
going  into  the  garden,  knocked  gently  at  the  door. 
There  was  no  response.  He  knocked  again,  and  listened 
intently.  Now  he  heard  a  sound— like  a  smothered  cry 
or  groan.  He  opened  the  door  quickly  and  entered. 
It  was  dark.  In  another  room  beyond  was  a  light. 
From  it  came  the  same  sound  he  had  heard  before,  but 
louder;  also  there  was  a  shuffling  footstep.  Springing 
forward  to  the  half-open  door,  he  pushed  it  wide,  and 
met  the  terror-stricken  eyes  of  Constantine  Jopp — the 
same  look  that  he  had  seen  at  the  theatre  when  his 
hands  were  on  Jopp's  throat,  but  more  ghastly. 

Jopp  was  bound  to  a  chair  by  a  lasso.  Both  arms 
were  fastened  to  the  chair-arm,  and  beneath  them,  on  the 
floor,  were  bowls  into  which  blood  dropped  from  his 
punctured  wrists. 

He  had  hardly  taken  it  all  in — the  work  of  an  instant 
— when  he  saw  crouched  in-  a  corner,  madness  in  his 
eyes,  his  half-breed  Vigon.     He  grasped  the  situation 

ao  291 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

in  a  flash.  Vigon  had  gone  mad,  had  lain  in  wait  in 
Jopp's  house,  and,  when  the  man  he  hated  had  seated 
himself  in  the  chair,  had  lassoed  him,  bound  him,  and 
was  slowly  bleeding  him  to  death. 

He  had  no  time  to  think.  Before  he  could  act 
Vigon  was  upon  him  also,  frenzy  in  his  eyes,  a  knife 
clutched  in  his  hand.  Reason  had  fled,  and  he  only 
saw  in  O'Ryan  the  frustrator  of  his  revenge.  He  had 
watched  the  drip,  drip  from  his  victim's  wrists  with 
a  dreadful  joy. 

They  were  man  and  man,  but  O'Ryan  found  in  this 
grisly  contest  a  vaster  trial  of  strength  than  in  the 
fight  upon  the  stage  a  few  hours  ago.  The  first  lunge 
that  Vigon  made  struck  him  on  the  tip  of  the  shoulder 
and  drew  blood;  but  he  caught  the  hand  holding  the 
knife  in  an  iron  grasp,  while  the  half-breed,  with  super- 
human strength,  tried  in  vain  for  the  long,  brown  throat 
of  the  man  for  whom  he  had  struck  oil.  As  they 
struggled  and  twisted,  the  eyes  of  the  victim  in  the 
chair  watched  them  with  agonized  emotions.  For  him 
it  was  life  or  death.  He  could  not  cry  out — his  mouth 
was  gagged;  but  to  O'Ryan  his  groans  were  like  a  distant 
echo  of  his  own  hoarse  gasps  as  he  fought  his  desperate 
fight.  Terry  was  as  one  in  an  awful  dream  battling  with 
vague,  impersonal  powers  which  slowly  strangled  his  life, 
yet  held  him  back  in  torture  from  the  final  surrender. 

For  minutes  they  struggled.  At  last  O' Ryan's 
strength  came  to  a  point  of  breaking,  for  Vigon  was  a 
powerful  man,  and  to  this  was  added  a  madman's 
energy.  He  felt  that  the  end  was  coming.  But  all  at 
once,  through  the  groans  of  the  victim  in  the  chair, 
Terry  became  conscious  of  noises  outside — such  noises 
as  he  had  heard  before  he  entered  the  house,  only 
nearer  and  louder.  At  the  same  time  he  heard  a 
horse's  hoofs,  then  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  voice 
calling,  "Jopp!  Jopp!" 

292 


WATCHING    THE     RISE    OF    ORION 

He  made  a  last  desperate  struggle,  and  shouted 
hoarsely. 

An  instant  later  there  were  footsteps  in  the  room, 
followed  by  a  cry  of  fright  and  amazement. 

It  was  Gow  Johnson.  He  had  come  to  warn  Con- 
stantine  Jopp  that  a  crowd  were  come  to  tar  and  feather 
him,  and  to  get  him  away  on  his  own  horse. 

Now  he  sprang  to  the  front  door,  called  to  the  ap- 
proaching crowd  for  help,  then  ran  back  to  help  O'Ryan. 
A  moment  later  a  dozen  men  had  Vigon  secure,  and  had 
released  Constantine  Jopp,  now  almost  dead  from  loss 
of  blood. 

As  they  took  the  gag  from  his  mouth  and  tied  their 
handkerchiefs  round  his  bleeding  wrists,  Jopp  sobbed 
aloud.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  Terry  O'Ryan.  Terry 
met  the  look,  and  grasped  the  limp  hand  lying  on  the 
chair-arm. 

"  I'm  sorry,  O'Ryan,  I'm  sorry  for  all  I've  done  to  you," 
Jopp  sobbed.  "  I  was  a  sneak,  but  I  want  to  own  it.  I 
want  to  be  square  now.  You  can  tar  and  feather  me,  if 
you  like.  I  deserve  it."  He  looked  at  the  others.  "I 
deserve  it,"  he  repeated. 

"  That's  what  the  boys  had  thought  would  be  appropri- 
ate," said  Gow  Johnson,  with  a  dry  chuckle,  and  the 
crowd  looked  at  one  another  and  winked.  The  wink 
was  kindly,  however.  "  To  own  up  and  take  your 
gruel!"  was  the  easiest  way  to  touch  the  men  of  the 
prairie. 

A  half-hour  later  the  roisterers,  who  had  meant  to 
carry  Constantine  Jopp  on  a  rail,  carried  Terry  O'Ryan 
on  their  shoulders  through  the  town,  against  his  will. 
As  they  passed  the  house  where  Miss  Mackinder  lived, 
some  one  shouted: 

"Are  you  watching  the  rise  of  Orion?" 
Many   a   time   thereafter   Terry   O'Ryan   and    Molly 
Mackinder  looked  at  the  galaxy  in  the  evening  sky  with 

293 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

laughter  and  with  pride.  It  had  played  its  part  with 
Fate  against  Constantine  Jopp  and  the  Httle  widow  at 
Jansen.  It  had  never  shone  so  brightly  as  on  the  night 
when  Vigon  struck  oil  on  0' Ryan's  ranch.  But  Vigon 
had  no  memory  of  that.     Such  is  the  irony  of  life. 


THE   ERROR   OF  THE   DAY 


The  "  Error  of  the  Day"  may  be  defined  as  the  "  The  difference 
between  the  distance  or  range  which  must  be  put  upon  the  sights 
in  order  to  hit  the  target  and  the  actual  distance  from  the  gun 
to  the  target." — Admiralty  Note. 

A  great  naval  gun  never  fires  twice  alike.  It  varies  from  day 
to  day,  and  expert  allowance  has  to  be  made  in  sighting  every 
time  it  is  fired.  Variations  in  atmosphere,  condition  of  ammuni- 
tion, and  the  wear  of  the  gun  are  the  contributory  causes  to  the 
ever-varying  "  Error  of  the  Day." 

"Say,  ain't  he  pretty?" 
"A  Jim-dandy — oh,  my!" 
"What's  his  price  in  the  open  market?" 
"Thirty  milUons— I  think  not." 

Then  was  heard  the  voice  of  Billy  Goat — his  name 
was  William  Goatry — 

"Out  in  the  cold  world,  out  in  the  street, 
Nothing  to  wear  and  nothing  to  eat, 
Fatherless,  motherless,  sadly  I  roam, 
Child  of  misfortune,  I'm  driven  from  home." 

A  lond  laugh  followed,  for  Billy  Goat  was  a  popular 
person  at  Kowatin,  in  the  Saskatchewan  country.  He 
had  an  inimitable  drollery,  heightened  by  a  cast  in  his 
eye,  a  very  large  mouth,  and  a  round,  good-humored 
face;  also  he  had  a  hand  and  arm  like  iron,  and  was 
altogether  a  great  man  on  a  "spree." 

295 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

There  had  been  a  two  days'  spree  at  Kowatin,  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  there  had  been  great  excitement 
over  the  capture  and  subsequent  escape  of  a  prairie- 
rover  who  had  robbed  the  contractor's  money  -  chest 
at  the  rail  -  head  on  the  Canadian  Pacific  Railroad. 
Forty  miles  from  Kowatin  he  had  been  caught  by, 
and  escaped  from,  the  tall,  brown  -  eyed  man  with  the 
hard-bitten  face  who  leaned  against  the  open  window 
of  the  tavern,  looking  indifferently  at  the  jeering  crowd 
before  him.  For  a  police  officer,  he  was  not  unpopular 
with  them,  but  he  had  been  a  failure  for  once,  and,  as 
Billy  Goat  had  said,  "  It  tickled  us  to  death  to  see  a 
rider  of  the  plains  off  his  trolley — on  the  cold,  cold 
ground,  same  as  you  and  me." 

They  did  not  undervalue  him.  If  he  had  been  less  a 
man  than  he  was,  they  would  not  have  taken  the  trouble 
to  cover  him  with  their  drunken  ribaldry.  He  had 
scored  off  them  in  the  past  in  just  such  sprees  as  this, 
when  he  had  the  power  to  do  so,  and  used  the  power 
good-naturedly  and  quietly — but  used  it. 

Then  he  was  Sergeant  Foyle,  of  the  Royal  Northwest 
Mounted  Police,  on  duty  in  a  district  as  large  as  the 
United  Kingdom.  And  he  had  no  greater  admirer  than 
Billy  Goat,  who  now  reviled  him.  Not  without  cause, 
in  a  way,  for  he  had  reviled  himself  to  this  extent 
that,  when  the  prairie-rover,  Halbeck,  escaped  on  the 
way  to  Prince  Albert,  after  six  months'  hunt  for  him 
and  a  final  capture  in  the  Kowatin  district,  Foyle  re- 
signed the  Force  before  the  Commissioner  could  re- 
proach him  or  call  him  to  account.  Usually  so  exact, 
so  certain  of  his  target,  some  care  had  not  been  taken, 
he  had  miscalculated,  and  there  had  been  the  Error  of 
the  Day.  Whatever  it  was,  it  had  seemed  to  him  fatal; 
and  he  had  turned  his  face  from  the  barrack-yard. 

Then  he  had  made  his  way  to  the  Happy  Land 
Hotel  at  Kowatin,  to  begin  life  as  "  a  free  and  indepen- 

296 


THE    ERROR    OF    THE    DAY 

dent  gent  on  the  loose,"  as  Billy  Goat  had  said.  To 
resign  had  seemed  extreme;  because,  though  the  Com- 
missioner was  vexed  at  Halbeck's  escape,  Foyle  was 
the  best  non-commissioned  officer  in  the  Force.  He 
had  frightened  horse  -  thieves  and  bogus  land  -  agents 
and  speculators  out  of  the  country;  had  fearlessly 
tracked  down  a  criminal  or  a  band  of  criminals  when 
the  odds  were  heavy  against  hira.  He  carried  on  his 
cheek  the  scars  of  two  bullets,  and  there  was  one  white 
lock  in  his  brown  hair  where  an  arrow  had  torn  the 
scalp  away  as,  alone,  he  drove  into  the  Post  a  score  of 
Indians,  fresh  from  raiding  the  cattle  of  an  immigrant 
trailing  north. 

Now  he  was  out  of  work,  or  so  it  seemed;  he  had 
stepped  down  from  his  scarlet-coated  dignity,  from  the 
place  of  guardian  and  guide  to  civilization,  into  the 
idleness  of  a  tavern  stoop. 

As  the  little  group  swayed  round  him,  and  Billy  Goat 
started  another  song,  Foyle  roused  himself  as  though  to 
move  away — he  was  waiting  for  the  mail-stage  to  take 
him  south — 

"Oh,  father,  dear  father,  come  home  with  me  now, 
The  clock  in  the  steeple  strikes  one; 
You  said  you  were  coming  right  home  from  the  shop 
As  soon  as  your  day's  work  was  done. 
Come  home — come  home — " 

The  song  arrested  him,  and  he  leaned  back  against 
the  window  again.  A  curious  look  came  into  his  eyes, 
a  look  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  acts  of  the 
people  before  him.  It  was  searching  into  a  scene  be- 
yond this  bright  sunlight  and  the  far  green  -  brown 
grass,  and  the  little  oasis  of  trees  in  the  distance  mark- 
ing a  homestead,  and  the  dust  of  the  wagon-wheels  out 
on  the  trail  beyond  the  grain  -  elevator  —  beyond  the 
blue  horizon's  rim,  quivering  in  the  heat,  and  into  re- 

297 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

gions  where  this  crisp,  clear,  life-giving,  life-saving  air 
never  blew. 

"You  said  you  were  coming  right  home  from  the  shop 
As  soon  as  your  day's  work  was  done. 
Come  home — come  home — " 

He  remembered  when  he  had  first  heard  this  song  in 
a  play  called  Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar-Room,  many  years 
before,  and  how  it  had  wrenched  his  heart  and  soul,  and 
covered  him  with  a  sudden  cloud  of  shame  and  anger. 
For  his  father  had  been  a  drunkard,  and  his  brother  had 
grown  up  a  drunkard,  that  brother  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  ten  years  until — until — 

He  shuddered,  closed  his  eyes,  as  though  to  shut  out 
something  that  the  mind  saw.  He  had  had  a  rough 
life,  he  had  become  inured  to  the  seamy  side  of  things — 
there  was  a  seamy  side  even  in  this  clean,  free,  wide 
land;  and  he  had  no  sentimentality;  though  something 
seemed  to  hurt  and  shame  him  now. 

"As  soon  as  your  day's  work  was  done. 
Come  home — come  home — " 

The  crowd  was  uproarious.  The  exhilaration  had  be- 
come a  kind  of  delirium.  Men  were  losing  their  heads ; 
there  was  an  element  of  irresponsibility  in  the  new 
outbreak  likely  to  breed  some  violent  act,  which  every 
man  of  them  would  lament  when  sober  again. 

Nettlewood  Foyle  watched  the  dust  rising  from  the 
wheels  of  the  stage,  which  had  passed  the  elevator  and 
was  nearing  the  Prairie  Home  Hotel,  far  down  the  street. 
He  would  soon  leave  behind  him  this  noisy  ribaldry  of 
which  he  was  the  centre.  He  tossed  his  cheroot  away. 
Suddenly  he  heard  a  low  voice  behind  him. 

"Why  don't  you  hit  out,  sergeant?"  it  said. 

He  started  almost  violently,  and  turned  round.     Then 

298 


{ 


THE    ERROR    OF    THE    DAY 

his  face  flushed,  his  eyes  blurred  with  feehng  and  deep 
Surprise,  and  his  Hps  parted  in  a  whispered  exclamation 
and  greeting. 

A  girl's  face  from  the  shade  of  the  sitting-room  was 
looking  out  at  him,  half  smiling,  but  with  heightened 
color  and  a  suppressed  agitation.  The  girl  was  not 
more  than  twenty-five,  graceful,  supple,  and  strong. 
Her  chin  was  dimpled;  across  her  right  temple  was  a 
slight  scar.  She  had  eyes  of  a  wonderful  deep  blue; 
they  seemed  to  swim  with  light.  As  Foyle  gazed  at  her 
for  a  moment  dumfounded,  with  a  quizzical  suggestion 
and  smiling  still  a  little  more,  she  said: 

"You  used  to  be  a  little  quicker,  Nett."  The  voice 
appeared  to  attempt  unconcern;  but  it  quivered  from  a 
force  of  feeling  underneath.  It  was  so  long  since  she 
had  seen  him. 

He  was  about  to  reply,  but,  at  the  instant,  a  reveller 
pushed  him  with  a  foot  behind  the  knees  so  that  they 
were  sprung  forward.  The  crowd  laughed — all  save 
Billy  Goat,  who  knew  his  man. 

Like  lightning,  and  with  cold  fury  in  his  eyes,  Foyle 
caught  the  tall  cattleman  by  the  forearm,  and,  with  a 
swift,  dexterous  twist,  had  the  fellow  in  his  power. 

"Down — down  to  your  knees,  you  skunk!"  he  said,  in 
a  low,  fierce  voice. 

The  knees  of  the  big  man  bent — Foyle  had  not  taken 
lessons  of  Ogami,  the  Jap,  for  nothing — they  bent,  and 
the  cattleman  squealed,  so  intense  was  the  pain.  It 
was  break  or  bend;  and  he  bent — to  the  ground  and 
lay  there.  Foyle  stood  over  him  for  a  moment,  a  hard 
light  in  his  eyes,  and  then,  as  if  bethinking  himself, 
he  looked  at  the  other  roisterers  and  said: 

"  There's  a  limit,  and  he  reached  it.  Your  mouths  are 
your  own,  and  you  can  blow  off  to  suit  your  fancy,  but 
if  any  one  thinks  I'm  a  tame  coyote  to  be  poked  with  a 
stick — !"     He  broke  off,  stooped  over,  and  helped  the 

299 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

man  before  him  to  his  feet.  The  arm  had  been  strained, 
and  the  big  fellow  nursed  it. 

"Hell,  but  you're  a  twister!"  the  cattleman  said,  with 
a  grimace  of  pain. 

Billy  Goat  was  a  gentleman,  after  his  kind,  and  he 
liked  Sergeant  Foyle  with  a  great  liking.  He  turned  to 
the  crowd  and  spoke. 

"  Say,  boys,  this  mine's  worked  out.  Let's  leave  the 
Happy  Land  to  Foyle.  Boys,  what  is  he — what — is 
— he?     What — is — Sergeant  Foyle — boys?" 

The  roar  of  the  song  they  all  knew  came  in  reply,  as 
Billy  Goat  waved  his  arms  about  like  the  wild  leader  of 
a  wild  orchestra: 

"Sergeant  Foyle,  oh,  he's  a  knocker  from  the  West, 

He's  a  chase-me-Charley,  come-and-kiss-me  tiger  from 
the  zoo: 
He's  a  dandy  on  the  pinch,  and  he's  got  a  double  cinch 
On  the  gent  that's  going  careless,  and  he'll  soon  cinch 

you: 
And  he'll  soon — and  he'll  soon — cinch  you!" 

Foyle  watched  them  go,  dancing,  stumbling,  calling 
back  at  him,  as  they  moved  toward  the  Prairie  Home 
Hotel : 

"And  he'll  soon — and  he'll  soon — cinch  you!" 

His  under-lip  came  out,  his  eyes  half  closed,  as  he 
watched  them.  "  I've  done  my  last  cinch.  I've  done 
my  last  cinch,"  he  murmured. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  look  in  his  face  changed,  the  eyes 
swam  as  they  had  done  a  minute  before  at  the  sight  of 
the  girl  in  the  room  behind.  Whatever  his  trouble  was, 
that  face  had  obscured  it  in  a  flash,  and  the  pools  of 
feeling  far  down  in  the  depths  of  a  lonely  nature  had 
been  stirred.  Recognition,  memory,  tenderness,  desire 
swam  in  his  face,   made  generous  and  kind  the  hard 

300 


THE    ERROR    OF    THE    DAY 

lines  of  the  strong  mouth.  In  an  instant  he  had  swung 
himself  over  the  window-sill.  The  girl  had  drawn  away 
now  into  a  more  shaded  corner  of  the  room,  and  she 
regarded  him  with  a  mingled  anxiety  and  eagerness. 
Was  she  afraid  of  something?  Did  she  fear  that — she 
knew  not  quite  what,  but  it  had  to  do  with  a  long  ago  ? 

"  It  was  time  you  hit  out,  Nett,"  she  said,  half  shyly. 
"  You're  more  patient  than  you  used  to  be,  but  you're 
surer.  My,  that  was  a  twist  you  gave  him,  Nett.  Aren't 
you  glad  to  see  me?"  she  added,  hastily  and  with  an 
effort  to  hide  her  agitation. 

He  reached  out  and  took  her  hand  with  a  strange 
shyness  and  a  self-consciousness  which  was  alien  to  his 
nature.  The  touch  of  her  hand  thrilled  him.  Their 
eyes  met.  She  dropped  hers.  Then  he  gathered  him- 
self together.  "Glad  to  see  you?  Of  course,  of  course, 
I'm  glad.  You  stunned  me,  Jo.  Why,  do  you  know 
where  you  are  ?  You're  a  thousand  miles  from  home. 
I  can't  get  it  through  my  head,  not  really.  What  brings 
you  here?  It's  ten  years — ten  years  since  I  saw  you, 
and  you  were  only  fifteen,  but  a  fifteen  that  was  as 
good  as  twenty." 

He  scanned  her  face  closely.  "What's  that  scar  on 
your  forehead,  Jo?     You  hadn't  that — then." 

"  I  ran  up  against  something,"  she  said,  evasively,  her 
eyes  glittering,  "and  it  left  that  scar.  Does  it  look  so 
bad?" 

"No,  you'd  never  notice  it,  if  you  weren't  looking 
close  as  I  am.  You  see,  I  knew  your  face  so  well  ten 
years  ago." 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  forced  kind  of  smile.  It 
became  him,  however,  for  he  smiled  rarely;  and  the 
smile  was  like  a  lantern  turned  on  his  face;  it  gave 
light  and  warmth  to  its  quiet  strength — or  hardness. 

"  You  were  always  quizzing,"  she  said,  with  an  attempt 
at  a  laugh — "always  trying  to  find  things  out.     That's 

30T 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

why  you  made  them  reckon  with  you  out  here.  You 
always  could  see  behind  things;  always  would  have  your 
own  way;  always  were  meant  to  be  a  success." 

She  was  beginning  to  get  control  of  herself  again,  was 
trying  hard  to  keep  things  on  the  surface.  "  You  were 
meant  to  succeed — you  had  to,"  she  added. 

"  I've  been  a  failure — a  dead  failure,"  he  answered, 
slowly.     "  So  they  say.     So  they  said.     You  heard  them, 

He  jerked  his  head  toward  the  open  window. 

"Oh,  those  drunken  fools!"  she  exclaimed,  indignant- 
ly, and  her  face  hardened.  "  How  I  hate  drink !  It  spoils 
everything." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  They  were  both 
thinking  of  the  same  thing — of  the  same  man.  He  re- 
peated a  question. 

"What  brings  you  out  here,  Jo?"  he  asked,  gently. 

"Borland,"  she  answered,  her  face  setting  into  deter- 
mination and  anxiety. 

His  face  became  pinched.  "Dorl!"  he  said,  heavily. 
"What  for,  Jo?     What  do  you  want  with  Dorl?" 

"  When  Cynthy  died  she  left  her  five  hundred  dollars 
a  year  to  the  baby,  and — " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.     Well,  Jo?" 

"Well,  it  was  all  right  for  five  years — Borland  paid 
it  in;  but  for  five  years  he  hasn't  paid  anything.  He's 
taken  it,  stolen  it  from  his  own  child  by  his  own  honest 
wife.  I've  come  to  get  it — anyway,  to  stop  him  from 
doing  it  any  more.  His  own  child — it  puts  murder  in 
my  heart,  Nett!     I  could  kill  him." 

He  nodded  grimly.  "  That's  likely.  And  you've 
kept  Borl's  child  with  your  own  money  all  these  years?" 

"  I've  got  four  hundred  dollars  a  year,  Nett,  you  know; 
and  I've  been  dressmaking — they  say  I've  got  taste,"  she 
added,  with  a  whimsical  smile. 

Nett  nodded  his  head.     "  Five  years.     That's  twenty- 

302 


THE    ERROR    OF    THE    DAY 

five  hundred  dollars  he's  stolen  from  his  own  child.  It's 
eight  years  old  now,  isn't  it?" 

"  Bobby  is  eight  and  a  half,"  she  answered. 

"  And  his  schooling,  and  his  clothing,  and  everything ; 
and  you  have  to  pay  for  it  all.'"' 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,  Nett;  it  isn't  that.  Bobby  is 
Cynthy's  child,  and  I  love  him— love  him;  but  I  want 
him  to  have  his  rights.  Dorl  must  give  up  his  hold  on 
that  money — or — " 

He  nodded  gravely.     "  Or  you'll  set  the  law  on  him  ? " 

"  It's  one  thing  or  the  other.  Better  to  do  it  now 
when  Bobby  is  young  and  can't  understand." 

"Or  read  the  newspapers,"  he  commented,  thought- 
fully. 

"  I  don't  think  I've  a  hard  heart,"  she  continued,  "but 
I'd  like  to  punish  him,  if  it  wasn't  that  he's  your  brother, 
Nett,  and  if  it  wasn't  for  Bobby.  Borland  was  dread- 
fully cruel,  even  to  Cynthy." 

"How  did  you  know  he  was  up  here?"  he  asked. 

"  From  the  lawyer  that  pays  over  the  money.  Dor- 
land  has  had  it  sent  out  here  to  Kowatin  this  two  years. 
And  he  sent  word  to  the  lawyer  a  month  ago  that  he 
wanted  it  to  get  here  as  usual.  The  letter  left  the  same 
day  as  I  did,  and  it  got  here  yesterday  with  me,  I  sup- 
pose. He'll  be  after  it — perhaps  to-day.  He  wouldn't 
let  it  wait  long,  Dorl  wouldn't." 

Foyle  started.     "To-day — to-day — " 

There  was  a  gleam  in  his  eyes,  a  setting  of  the  lips, 
a  line  sinking  into  the  forehead  between  the  eyes. 

"  I've  been  watching  for  him  all  day,  and  I'll  watch 
till  he  comes.  I'm  going  to  say  some  things  to  him 
that  he  won't  forget.  I'm  going  to  get  Bobby's  money, 
or  have  the  law  to  do  it — unless  you  think  I'm  a  brute, 
Nett."     She  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

"That's  all  right.  Don't  worry  about  me,  Jo.  He's 
my  brother,  but  I  know  him — I  know  him  through  and 

3°i 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

through.  He's  done  everything  that  a  man  can  do  and 
not  be  hanged.  A  thief,  a  drunkard,  and  a  brute — and 
he  killed  a  man  out  here,"  he  added,  hoarsely.  "  I  found 
it  out  myself — myself.     It  was  murder." 

Suddenly,  as  he  looked  at  her,  an  idea  seemed  to 
flash  into  his  mind.  He  came  very  near  and  looked  at 
her  closely.  Then  he  reached  over  and  almost  touched 
the  scar  on  her  forehead. 

"Did  he  do  that,  Jo?" 

For  an  instant  she  was  silent  and  looked  down  at  the 
floor.  Presently  she  raised  her  eyes,  her  face  suffused. 
Once  or  twice  she  tried  to  speak,  but  failed.  At  last 
she  gained  courage,  and  said: 

"After  Cynthy's  death  I  kept  house  for  him  for  a 
year,  taking  care  of  little  Bobby.  I  loved  Bobby  so 
— he  has  Cynthy's  eyes.  One  day  Borland — oh,  Nett, 
of  course  I  oughtn't  to  have  stayed  there — I  know  it 
now;  but  I  was  only  sixteen,  and  what  did  I  under- 
stand! And  my  mother  was  dead.  One  day — oh, 
please,  Nett,  you  can  guess.  He  said  something  to  me. 
I  made  him  leave  the  house.  Before  I  could  make 
plans  what  to  do,  he  came  back  mad  with  drink.  I 
went  for  Bobby,  to  get  out  of  the  house,  but  he  caught 
hold  of  me.  I  struck  him  in  the  face,  and  he  threw 
me  against  the  edge  of  the  open  door.  It  made  the 
scar." 

Foyle's  face  was  white.  "Why  did  you  never  write 
and  tell  me  that,  Jo  ?  You  know  that  I — "  He  stopped 
suddenly. 

"  You  had  gone  out  of  our  lives  down  there.  I  didn't 
know  where  you  were  for  a  long  time;  and  then — then 
it  was  all  right  about  Bobby  and  me,  except  that  Bobby 
didn't  get  the  money  that  was  his.     But  now — " 

Foyle's  voice  was  hoarse  and  low.  "  He  made  that 
scar,  and  he — and  you  only  sixteen —     Oh,  my  God!" 

Suddenly  his  face  reddened,  and  he  choked  with  shame 

304 


THE    ERROR    OF    THE    DAY 

and  anger.  "And  he's  my  brother!"  was  all  that  he 
could  say. 

"  Do  you  see  him  up  here  ever?"  she  asked,  pityingly. 

"  I  never  saw  him  till  a  week  ago."  A  moment,  then 
he  added,  "  The  letter  w^asn't  to  be  sent  here  in  his  own 
name,  was  it?" 

She  nodded.  "  Yes,  in  his  own  name,  Dorland  W. 
Foyle.     Didn't  he  go  by  that  name  when  you  saw  him  ? " 

There  was  an  oppressive  silence,  in  which  she  saw 
that  something  moved  him  strangely,  and  then  he  an- 
swered, "  No,  he  was  going  by  the  name  of  Halbeck — 
Hiram  Halbeck." 

The  girl  gasped.  Then  the  whole  thing  burst  upon 
her.  "Hiram  Halbeck!  Hiram  Halbeck,  the  thief — I 
read  it  all  in  the  papers — -the  thief  that  you  caught,  and 
that  got  away.  And  you've  left  the  Mounted  Police  be- 
cause of  it — oh,  Nett!"  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  her 
face  was  drawn  and  gray. 

He  nodded.  "  I  didn't  know  who  he  was  till  I  arrest- 
ed him,"  he  said.  "Then,  afterward,  I  thought  of  his 
child,  and  let  him  get  away;  and  for  my  poor  old  mother's 
sake.  She  never  knew  how  bad  he  was,  even  as  a  boy. 
But  I  remember  how  he  used  to  steal  and  drink  the 
brandy  from  her  bedside,  when  she  had  the  fever.  She 
never  knew  the  worst  of  him.  But  I  let  him  away 
in  the  night,  Jo,  and  I  resigned,  and  they  thought 
that  Halbeck  had  beaten  me,  had  escaped.  Of  course 
I  couldn't  stay  in  the  Force,  having  done  that.  But,  by 
the  heaven  above  us,  if  I  had  him  here  now  I'd  do  the 
thing — do  it,  so  help  me  God!" 

"Why  should  you  ruin  your  life  for  him?"  she  said, 
with  an  outburst  of  indignation.  All  that  was  in  her 
heart  welled  up  in  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  what 
Foyle  was.  "  You  must  not  do  it.  You  shall  not  do  it. 
He  must  pay  for  his  wickedness,  not  you.  It  would  be 
a  sin.     You  and  what  becomes  of  you  mean  so  much." 

305 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Suddenly,  with  a  flash  of  purpose,  she  added,  "  He  will 
come  for  that  letter,  Nett.  He  would  run  any  kind  of 
risk  to  get  a  dollar.  He  will  come  here  for  that  letter — '■ 
perhaps  to-day." 

He  shook  his  head  moodily,  oppressed  by  the  trouble 
that  was  on  him.  "  He's  not  likely  to  venture  here, 
after  what's  happened." 

"  You  don't  know  him  as  well  as  I  do,  Nett.  He  is 
so  vain  he'd  do  it,  just  to  show  that  he  could.  He'd 
probably  come  in  the  evening.  Does  any  one  know 
him  here?  So  many  people  pass  through  Kowatin 
every  day.     Has  any  one  seen  him?" 

"Only  Billy  Goatry,"  he  answered,  working  his  way 
to  a  solution  of  the  dark  problem.  "  Only  Billy  Goatry 
knows  him.  The  fellow  that  led  the  singing — that  was 
Goatry." 

"There  be  is  now,"  he  added,  as  Billy  Goat  passed  the 
window. 

She  came  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  "We've  got 
to  settle  things  with  him,"  she  said.  "If  Dorl  comes, 
Nett—" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  then  he  caught  her 
hand  in  his  and  held  it,  "  If  he  comes,  leave  him  to  me, 
Jo.     You  will  leave  him  to  me?"  he  added,  anxiously. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "You'll  do  what's  right — by 
Bobby?" 

"  And  by  Dorl,  too,"  he  replied,  strangely. 

There  were  loud  footsteps  without. 

"  It's  Goatry,"  said  Foyle.  "  You  stay  here.  I'll  tell 
him  everything.  He's  all  right;  he's  a  true  friend. 
He'll  not  interfere." 

The  handle  of  the  door  turned  slowly.  "You  keep 
watch  on  the  post-office,  Jo,"  he  added. 

Goatry  came  round  the  opening  door  with  a  grin. 

"Hope  I  don't  intrude,"  he  said,  steahng  a  half- 
leering  look  at  the  girl.     As  soon  as  he  saw  her  face, 

306 


THE    ERROR    OF    THE    DAY 

however,  he  straightened  himself  up  and  took  on  differ- 
ent manners.  He  had  not  been  so  intoxicated  as  he  had 
made  out,  and  he  seemed  only  "mellow"  as  he  stood  be- 
fore them,  with  his  corrugated  face  and  queer,  quaint  look, 
the  eye  with  the  cast  in  it  blinking  faster  than  the  other. 

"It's  all  right,  Goatry,"  said  Foyle.  "This  lady  is 
one  of  my  family  from  the  East." 

"Goin'  on  by  stage?"  Goatry  said,  vaguely,  as  they 
shook  hands. 

She  did  not  reply,  for  she  was  looking  down  the 
street,  and  presently  she  started  as  she  gazed.  She 
laid  a  hand  suddenly  on  Foyle's  arm. 

"See  —  he's  come,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper,  and  as 
though  not  realizing  Goatry's  presence.     "He's  come.'' 

Goatry  looked,  as  well  as  Foyle.  "  Halbeck  —  the 
devil!"  he  said. 

Foyle  turned  to  him.  "  Stand  by,  Goatry.  I  want 
you  to  keep  a  shut  mouth.     I've  work  to  do." 

Goatry  held  out  his  hand.  "  I'm  with  you.  If  you 
get  him  this  time,  clamp  him,  clamp  him  like  a  tooth  in 
a  harrow." 

Halbeck  had  stopped  his  horse  at  the  post-office  door. 
Dismounting,  he  looked  quickly  round,  then  drew  the 
reins  over  the  horse's  head,  letting  them  trail,  as  is  the 
custom  of  the  West. 

A  few  swift  words  passed  between  Goatry  and  Foyle. 

"I'll  do  this  myself,  Jo,"  he  whispered  to  the  girl 
presently.    "  Go  into  another  room.     I'll  bring  him  here." 

In  another  minute  Goatry  was  leading  the  horse 
away  from  the  post-ofhce,  while  Foyle  stood  waiting 
quietly  at  the  door.  The  departing  footsteps  of  the 
horse  brought  Halbeck  swiftly  to  the  doorway,  with  a 
letter  in  his  hand. 

"Hi,    there,    you    damned   sucker!"    he   called    after 
Goatry,  and  then  saw  Foyle  waiting. 
«  307 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"What  the  hell — !"  he  said,  fiercely,  his  hand  on 
something  in  his  hip-pocket. 

"  Keep  quiet,  Dorl.  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
you.  Take  your  hand  away  from  that  gun— take  it 
away!"  he  added,  with  a  meaning  not  to  be  misunder- 
stood. 

Halbeck  knew  that  one  shout  would  have  the  town 
on  him,  and  he  did  not  know  what  card  his  brother  was 
going  to  play.  He  let  his  arm  drop  to  his  side.  "What's 
your  game?     What  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  surlily. 

"  Come  over  to  the  Happy  Land,"  Foyle  answered, 
and  in  the  light  of  what  was  in  his  mind  his  words  had 
a  grim  irony. 

With  a  snarl  Halbeck  stepped  out.  Goatry,  who  had 
handed  the  horse  over  to  the  hostler,watched  them  coming. 

"Why  did  I  never  notice  the  likeness  before?"  Goatry 
said  to  himself.  "But,  gosh!  what  a  difference  in  the 
men.  Foyle's  going  to  double  cinch  him  this  time,  I 
guess." 

He  followed  them  inside  the  hall  of  the  Happy  Land. 
When  they  stepped  into  the  sitting-room,  he  stood  at 
the  door  waiting.  The  hotel  was  entirely  empty,  the 
roisterers  at  the  Prairie  Home  having  drawn  off  the 
idlers  and  spectators.  The  barman  was  nodding  behind 
the  bar,  the  proprietor  was  moving  about  in  the  back- 
yard inspecting  a  horse.  There  was  a  cheerful  warmth 
everywhere ;  the  air  was  like  an  elixir ;  the  pungent  smell 
of  a  pine-tree  at  the  door  gave  a  kind  of  medicament 
to  the  indrawn  breath.  And  to  Billy  Goat,  who  some- 
times sang  in  the  choir  of  a  church  not  a  hundred  miles 
away — for  the  people  agreed  to  forget  his  occasional 
sprees — there  came,  he  knew  not  why,  the  words  of  a 
hymn  he  had  sung  only  the  preceding  Sunday: 

"As  pants  the  hart  for  cooling  streams. 
When  heated  in  the  chase — " 
308 


THE    ERROR    OF    THE    DAY 

The  words  kept  ringing  in  his  ears  as  he  listened  to 
the  conversation  inside  the  room  —  the  partition  was 
thin,  the  door  thinner,  and  he  heard  much.  Foyle  had 
asked  him  not  to  intervene,  but  only  to  stand  by  and 
await  the  issue  of  this  final  conference.  He  meant, 
however,  to  take  a  hand  in  if  he  thought  he  was  needed, 
and  he  kept  his  ear  glued  to  the  door.  If  he  thought 
Foyle  needed  him — his  fingers  were  on  the  handle  of 
the  door. 

"Now,  hurry  up!  What  do  you  want  with  me?" 
asked  Halbeck  of  his  brother. 

"Take  your  time,"  said  ex-Sergeant  Foyle,  as  he 
drew  the  blind  three-quarters  down,  so  that  they  could 
not  be  seen  from  the  street. 

"  I'm  in  a  hurry,  I  tell  you.  I've  got  my  plans.  I'm 
going  South.  I've  only  just  time  to  catch  the  Canadian 
Pacific  three  days  from  now,  riding  hard." 

"You're  not  going  South,  Dorl." 

"Where  am  I  going,  then?"  was  the  sneering  reply. 

"Not  farther  than  the  Happy  Land." 

"What  the  devil's  all  this?  You  don't  mean  you're 
trying  to  arrest  me  again,  after  letting  me  go?" 

"You  don't  need  to  ask.  You're  my  prisoner. 
You're  my  prisoner,"  he  said,  in  a  louder  voice — "until 
you  free  yourself." 

"I'll  do  that  damn  quick,  then,"  said  the  other,  his 
hand  flying  to  his  hip. 

"  Sit  down,"  was  the  sharp  rejoinder,  and  a  pistol  was 
in  his  face  before  he  could  draw  his  own  weapon. 

"  Put  your  gun  on  the  table,"  Foyle  said,  quietly. 
Halbeck  did  so.     There  was  no  other  way. 

Foyle  drew  it  over  to  himself.  His  brother  made  a 
motion  to  rise. 

"Sit  still,  Dorl,"  came  the  warning  voice. 

White  with  rage,  the  freebooter  sat  still,  his  dissi- 
pated   face   and  heavy    angry  lips,   looking  like   a   de- 

309 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

bauched  and  villanous  caricature  of  his  brother  before 
him. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you'd  have  potted  me,  Dorl,"  said 
the  ex-sergeant.  "  You'd  have  thought  no  more  of  do- 
ing that  than  you  did  of  kilHng  Linley,  the  ranchman ; 
than  you  did  of  trying  to  ruin  Jo  Byndon,  your  wife's 
sister,  when  she  was  sixteen  years  old,  when  she  was 
caring  for  your  child — giving  her  life  for  the  child  you 
brought  into  the  world." 

"  What  in  the  name  of  hell — it's  a  lie!" 

"Don't  bluster.     I  know  the  truth." 

"Who  told  you— the  truth?" 

"She  did— to-day — an  hour  ago." 

"  She  here — out  here  ? "  There  was  a  new,  cowed  note 
in  the  voice. 

"She  is  in  the  next  room." 

"What  did  she  come  here  for?" 

"  To  make  you  do  right  by  your  own  child.  I  wonder 
what  a  jury  of  decent  men  would  think  about  a  man 
who  robbed  his  child  for  five  years,  and  let  that  child 
be  fed  and  clothed  and  cared  for  by  the  girl  he  tried 
to  destroy,  the  girl  he  taught  what  sin  there  was  in  the 
world." 

"  She  put  you  up  to  this.  She  was  always  in  love 
with  you,  and  you  know  it." 

There  was  a  dangerous  look  in  Foyle's  eyes,  and  his 
jaw  set  hard.  "There  would  be  no  shame  in  a  decent 
woman  caring  for  me,  even  if  it  was  true.  I  haven't  put 
myself  outside  the  boundary  as  you  have.  You're  my 
brother,  but  you're  the  worst  scoundrel  in  the  country — 
the  worst  unhanged.  Put  on  the  table  there  the  letter 
in  your  pocket.  It  holds  five  hundred  dollars  belong- 
ing to  your  child.  There's  twenty-five  hundred  dollars 
more  to  be  accounted  for." 

The  other  hesitated,  then  with  an  oath  threw  the 
letter  on  the  table.     "  I'll  pay  the  rest  as  soon  as  I  can, 

310 


THE    ERROR    OF    THE    DAY 

if  you'll  stop  this  damned  tomfoolery,"  he  said,  sullenly, 
for  he  saw  that  he  was  in  a  hole. 

"  You'll  pay  it,  I  suppose,  out  of  what  you  stole  from 
the  C.  P.  R.  contractor's  chest.  No,  I  don't  think  that 
will  do." 

"You  want  me  to  go  to  prison,  then?" 

"  I  think  not.  The  truth  would  come  out  at  the  trial 
— the  whole  truth — the  murder  and  all.  There's  your 
child,  Bobby.  You've  done  him  enough  wrong  already. 
Do  you  want  him— but  it  doesn't  matter  whether  you 
do  or  not — do  you  want  him  to  carry  through  life  the 
fact  that  his  father  was  a  jail-bird  and  a  murderer,  just 
as  Jo  Byndon  carries  the  scar  you  made  when  you 
threw  her  against  the  door?" 

"What  do  you  want  with  me,  then?"  The  man 
sank  slowly  and  heavily  back  into  the  chair. 

"There  is  a  way — have  you  never  thought  of  it? 
When  you  threatened  others  as  you  did  me,  and  life 
seemed  such  a  little  thing  in  others — can't  you  think?" 

Bewildered,  the  man  looked  around  helplessly.  In 
the  silence  which  followed  Foyle's  words  his  brain  was 
struggling  to  see  a  way  out.  Foyle's  further  words 
seemed  to  come  from  a  great  distance. 

"  It's  not  too  late  to  do  the  decent  thing.  You'll 
never  repent  of  all  you've  done;  you'll  never  do  dif- 
ferent." 

The  old,  reckless,  irresponsible  spirit  revived  in  the 
man;  he  had  both  courage  and  bravado;  he  was  not 
hopeless  yet  of  finding  an  escape  from  the  net.  He 
would  not  beg,  he  would  struggle. 

"  I've  lived  as  I  meant  to,  and  I'm  not  going  to  snivel 
or  repent  now.  It's  all  a  rotten  business,  anyhow," 
he  rejoined. 

With  a  sudden  resolution  the  ex-sergeant  put  his  own 
pistol  in  his  pocket,  then  pushed  Halbeck's  pistol  over 
toward  him  on  the  table.     Halbeck's  eyes  lighted  eager- 

311 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

ly,  grew  red  with  excitement,  then  a  change  passed  over 
them.     They  now  settled  on  the  pistol,  and  stayed. 

He  heard  Foyle's  voice.  "  It's  with  you  to  do  what 
you  ought  to  do.  Of  course  you  can  kill  me.  My 
pistol's  in  my  pocket.  But  I  don't  think  you  will. 
You've  murdered  one  man.  You  won't  load  your  soul 
up  with  another.  Besides,  if  you  kill  me,  you  will  never 
get  away  from  Kowatin  alive.  But  it's  with  you — 
take  your  choice.     It's  me  or  you." 

Halbeck's  fingers  crept  out  and  found  the  pistol. 

"Do  your  duty,  Dorl,"  said  the  ex-sergeant,  as  he 
turned  his  back  on  his  brother. 

The  door  of  the  room  opened,  and  Goatry  stepped 
inside  softly.  He  had  work  to  do,  if  need  be,  and  his 
face  showed  it.     Halbeck  did  not  see  him. 

There  was  a  demon  in  Halbeck's  eyes,  as  his  brother 
stood,  his  back  turned,  taking  his  chances.  A  large 
mirror  hung  on  the  wall  opposite  Halbeck.  Goatry 
was  watching  Halbeck's  face  in  the  glass,  and  saw  the 
danger.     He  measured  his  distance. 

All  at  once  Halbeck  caught  Goatry's  face  in  the 
mirror.  The  dark  devilry  faded  out  of  his  eyes.  His 
lips  moved  in  a  whispered  oath.  Every  way  was 
blocked. 

With  a  sudden  wild  resolution  he  raised  the  pistol  to 
his  head.  It  cracked,  and  he  fell  back  heavily  in  the 
chair.     There  was  a  red  trickle  at  the  temple. 

He  had  chosen  the  best  way  out. 

"He  had  the  pluck,"  said  Goatry,  as  Foyle  swung 
round  with  a  face  of  misery. 

A  moment  afterward  came  a  rush  of  people.  Goatry 
kept  them  back. 

"  Sergeant  Foyle  arrested  Halbeck,  and  Halbeck's  shot 
himself,"  Goatry  explained  to  them. 

A  white-faced  girl  with  a  scar  on  her  temple  made 
her  way  into  the  room. 

312 


"IF      YOU        KILL       ME,       YOU       WILL       NEVER       GET       AWAY       FROM 

KOWATIN       ALIVE" 


THE    ERROR    OF    THE    DAY 

"Come  away — come  away,  Jo,"  said  the  voice  of  the 
man  she  loved;  and  he  did  not  let  her  see  the  lifeless 
figure  in  the  chair. 

Three  days  later  the  plains  swallowed  them,  as  they 
made  their  way  with  Billy  Goatry  to  the  headquarters 
of  the  Riders  of  the  Plains,  where  Sergeant  Foyle  was 
asked  to  reconsider  his  resignation:  which  he  did. 


THE  WHISPERER 

"And  thou  shalt  be  brought  down  and  shalt  speak  out  of  the 
ground,  and  thy  speech  shall  be  low  out  of  the  dust,  and  thy 
voice  shall  be  as  of  one  that  hath  a  familiar  spirit  out  of  the 
ground,  and  thy  speech  shall  whisper  out  of  the  dust." 

The  harvest  was  all  in,  and,  as  far  as  eye  could  observe, 
nothing  remained  of  the  golden  sea  of  wheat  which  had 
covered  the  wide  prairie  save  the  yellow  stubble,  the 
bed  of  an  ocean  of  wealth  which  had  been  gathered. 
Here  the  yellow  level  was  broken  by  a  dark  patch  of 
fallow  land,  there  by  a  covert  of  trees  also  tinged  with 
yellow,  or  deepening  to  crimson  and  mauve — the  har- 
binger of  autumn.  The  sun  had  not  the  insistent  and 
intensive  strength  of  more  southerly  climes;  it  was 
buoyant,  confident,  and  heartening,  and  it  shone  in  a 
turquoise  vault  which  covered  and  endeared  the  wide, 
even  world  beneath.  Now  and  then  a  flock  of  wild 
ducks  whirred  past,  making  for  the  marshes  or  the  in- 
numerable lakes  that  vitalized  the  expanse,  or  buzzards 
hunched  heavily  along,  frightened  from  some  far  resort 
by  eager  sportsmen. 

That  was  above;  but  beneath,  on  a  level  with  the 
unlifted  eye,  were  houses  here  and  there,  looking  in  the 
vastness  like  dolls'  habitations.  Many  of  the  houses 
stood  blank  and  staring  in  the  expanse,  but  some  had 
trees,  and  others  little  oases  of  green.  Everywhere  pros- 
perity, everywhere  the  strings  of  life  pulled  taut,  signs 
that  energy  had  been  straining  on  the  leash. 

314 


THE    WHISPERER 

Yet  there  was  one  spot  where  it  seemed  that  dead- 
ness  made  encampment.  It  could  not  be  seen  in  the 
sweep  of  the  eye,  you  must  have  travelled  and  looked 
vigilantly  to  find  it;  but  it  was  there — a  lake  shimmer- 
ing in  the  eager  sun,  washing  against  a  reedy  shore, 
a  little  river  running  into  the  reedy  lake  at  one  end 
and  out  at  the  other,  a  small,  dilapidated  house  half  hid 
in  a  wood  that  stretched  for  half  a  mile  or  so  upon  a 
rising  ground.  In  front  of  the  house,  not  far  from  the 
lake,  a  man  was  lying  asleep  upon  the  ground,  a  rough 
felt  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes. 

Like  the  house,  the  man  seemed  dilapidated  also:  a 
slovenly,  ill-dressed,  demoraHzed  figure  he  looked,  even 
with  his  face  covered.  He  seemed  in  a  deep  sleep. 
Wild  ducks  settled  on  the  lake  not  far  from  him  with 
a  swish  and  flutter;  a  coyote  ran  past,  veering  as  it  saw 
the  recumbent  figure;  a  prairie  hen  rustled  by  with  a 
shrill  cluck,  but  he  seemed  oblivious  to  all.  If  asleep, 
he  was  evidently  dreaming,  for  now  and  then  he  started, 
or  his  body  twitched  and  a  muttering  came  from  be- 
neath the  hat. 

The  battered  house,  the  absence  of  barn  or  stable  or 
garden,  or  any  token  of  thrift  or  energy,  marked  the 
man  as  an  excrescence  in  this  theatre  of  hope  and  fruitful 
toil.  It  all  belonged  to  some  degenerate  land,  some 
exhausted  civilization,  not  to  this  field  of  vigor  where 
life  rang  like  silver. 

So  the  man  lay  for  hour  upon  hour.  He  slept  as 
though  he  had  been  upon  a  long  journey  in  which  the 
body  was  worn  to  helplessness.  Or  was  it  that  sleep 
of  the  worn-out  spirit  which,  tortured  by  remembrance 
and  remorse,  at  last  sinks  into  the  depths  w^here  the 
conscious  vexes  the  unconscious — a  little  of  fire,  a  little 
of  ice,  and  now  and  then  the  turn  of  the  screw  ? 

The  day  marched  nobly  on  toward  evening,  growing 
out  of  its  blue  and  silver  into  a  pervasive  golden  gleam ; 

315 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

the  bare,  grayish  houses  on  the  prairie  were  transformed 
into  miniature  palaces  of  Hght.  Presently  a  girl  came 
out  of  the  woods  behind,  looking  at  the  neglected  house 
with  a  half-pitying  curiosity.  She  carried  in  one  hand 
a  fishing-rod  which  had  been  telescoped  till  it  was  no 
bigger  than  a  cane;  in  the  other  she  carried  a  small 
fishing-basket.  Her  father's  shooting  and  fishing  camp 
was  a  few  miles  away  by  a  lake  of  greater  size  than  this 
which  she  approached.  She  had  tired  of  the  gay  com- 
pany in  camp,  brought  up  for  sport  from  beyond  the 
American  border  where  she  also  belonged,  and  she  had 
come  to  explore  the  river  running  into  this  reedy  lake. 
She  turned  from  the  house  and  came  nearer  to  the 
lake,  shaking  her  head,  as  though  compassionating  the 
poor  folk  who  lived  there.  She  was  beautiful.  Her 
hair  was  brown,  going  to  tawny,  but  in  this  soft  light 
which  enwrapped  her  she  was  in  a  sort  of  topaz  flame. 
As  she  came  on,  suddenly  she  stopped  as  though  trans- 
fixed.    She  saw  the  man — and  saw  also  a  tragedy  afoot. 

The  man  stirred  violently  in  his  sleep,  cried  out,  and 
started  up.  As  he  did  so,  a  snake,  disturbed  in  its 
travel  past  him,  suddenly  raised  itself  in  anger.  Startled 
out  of  sleep  by  some  inner  torture,  the  man  heard  the 
sinister  rattle  he  knew  so  well,  and  gazed  paralyzed. 

The  girl  had  been  but  a  few  feet  away  when  she  first 
saw  the  man  and  his  angry  foe.  An  instant,  then,  with 
the  instinct  of  the  woods  and  the  plains,  and  the  courage 
that  has  habitation  everywhere,  dropping  her  basket 
she  sprang  forward  noiselessly.  The  short,  telescoped 
fishing-rod  she  carried  swung  round  her  head  and  com- 
pleted its  next  half-circle  at  the  head  of  the  reptile, 
even  as  it  was  about  to  strike.  The  blow  was  sure, 
and  with  half-severed  head  the  snake  fell  dead  upon 
the  ground  beside  the  man. 

He  was  like  one  who  has  been  projected  from  one 
world   to  another,   dazed,   stricken,   fearful.     Presently 

316 


THE    WHISPERER 

the  look  of  agonized  dismay  gave  way  to  such  an  ex- 
pression of  reHef  as  might  come  upon  the  face  of  a 
reprieved  victim  about  to  be  given  to  the  fire  or  to  the 
knife  that  flays.  The  place  of  dreams  from  which  he 
had  emerged  was  like  hell,  and  this  was  some  world 
of  peace  that  he  had  not  known  these  many  years. 
Always  one  had  been  at  his  elbow — "  a  familiar  spirit 
out  of  the  ground" — whispering  in  his  ear.  He  had 
been  down  in  the  abysses  of  life. 

He  glanced  again  at  the  girl,  and  realized  what  she 
had  done:  she  had  saved  his  life.  Whether  it  had  been 
worth  saving  was  another  question;  but  he  had  been 
near  to  the  brink,  had  looked  in,  and  the  animal  in  him 
had  shrunk  back  from  the  precipice  in  a  confused  agony 
of  fear.     He  staggered  to  his  feet. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?"  he  said,  pulling  his  coat 
closer  to  hide  the  ragged  waistcoat  underneath,  and 
adjusting  his  worn  and  dirty  hat — in  his  youth  he  had 
been  vain  and  ambitious,  and  good-looking  also. 

He  asked  his  question  in  no  impertinent  tone,  but  in 
the  low  voice  of  one  who  "  shall  whisper  out  of  the  dust." 
He  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  first  impression  of 
his  awakening,  that  the  world  in  which  he  now  stood  was 
not  a  real  world. 

She  understood,  and  half  in  pity  and  half  in  conquered 
repugnance  said: 

"I  come  from  a  camp  beyond" — she  indicated  the 
direction  by  a  gesture.  "  I  had  been  fishing" — she  took 
up  the  basket — "and  chanced  on  you  —  then."  She 
glanced  at  the  snake  significantly. 

"  You  killed  it  in  the  nick  of  time,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  still  spoke  of  the  ground,  but  with  a  note  o^  half- 
shamed  gratitude.  "I  want  to  thank  you,"  he  added. 
"  You  were  brave.  It  would  have  turned  on  you  if  you 
had  missed.  I  know  them,  I've  killed  five."  He  spoke 
very  slowly,  huskily. 

317 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"Well,  you  are  safe — that  is  the  chief  thing,"  she 
rejoined,  making  as  though  to  depart.  But  presently  she 
turned  back.  "  Why  are  you  so  dreadfully  poor — and 
everything?"  she  asked,  gently. 

His  eye  wandered  over  the  lake  and  back  again  before 
he  answered  her,  in  a  dull,  heavy  tone,  "  I've  had  bad 
luck,  and,  when  you  get  down,  there  are  plenty  to  kick 
you  farther." 

"  You  weren't  always  poor  as  you  are  now — I  mean 
long  ago,  when  you  were  young." 

"I'm  not  so  old,"  he  rejoined,  sluggishly — "only 
thirty-four." 

She  could  not  suppress  her  astonishment.  She  looked- 
at  the  hair  already  gray,  the  hard,  pinched  face,  the 
lustreless  eyes. 

"Yet  it  must  seem  long  to  you,"  she  said,  with 
meaning. 

Now  he  laughed — a  laugh  sodden  and  mirthless.  He 
was  thinking  of  his  boyhood.  Everything,  save  one 
or  two  spots  all  fire  or  all  darkness,  was  dim  in  his  de- 
bilitated mind. 

"Too  far  to  go  back,"  he  said,  with  a  gleam  of  the 
intelligence  which  had  been  strong  in  him  once. 

She  caught  the  gleam.  She  had  wisdom  beyond  her 
years.  It  was  the  greater  because  her  mother  was  dead, 
and  she  had  had  so  much  wealth  to  dispense,  for  her 
father  was  rich  beyond  counting,  and  she  controlled  his 
household  and  helped  to  regulate  his  charities.  She  saw 
that  he  was  not  of  the  laboring  classes,  that  he  had 
known  better  days;  his  speech,  if  abrupt  and  cheerless, 
was  grammatical. 

"If  you  cannot  go  back,  you  can  go  forward,"  she 
said,  firmly.  "  Why  should  you  be  the  only  man  in  this 
beautiful  land  who  lives  like  this,  who  is  idle  when  there 
is  so  much  to  do,  who  sleeps  in  the  daytime  when  there 
is  so  much  time  to  sleep  at  night?" 

318 


THE    WHISPERER 

A  faint  flush  came  on  the  grayish,  colorless  face.  "  I 
don't  sleep  at  night,"  he  returned,  moodily. 

"Why  don't  you  sleep?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  stirred  the  body  of  the  snake 
with  his  foot.  The  tail  moved;  he  stamped  upon  the 
head  with  almost  frenzied  violence,  out  of  keeping  with 
his  sluggishness. 

She  turned  away,  yet  looked  back  once  more — she  felt 
tragedy  around  her.  "  It  is  never  too  late  to  mend,"  she 
said,  and  moved  on,  but  stopped,  for  a  young  man  came 
running  from  the  woods  toward  her. 

"I've  had  a  hunt — -such  a  hunt  for  you!"  the  young 
man  said,  eagerly,  then  stopped  short  when  he  saw  to 
whom  she  had  been  talking.  A  look  of  disgust  came 
upon  his  face  as  he  drew  her  away,  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"In  Heaven's  name,  why  did  you  talk  to  that  man?" 
he  said.  "  You  ought  not  to  have  trusted  yourself  near 
him." 

"What  has  he  done?"  she  asked.     "Is  he  so  bad?" 

"  I've  heard  about  him.  I  inquired  the  other  day. 
He  was  once  in  a  better  position  as  a  ranchman — ten 
years  ago;  but  he  came  into  some  money  one  day,  and 
he  changed  at  once.  He  never  had  a  good  character; 
even  before  he  got  his  money  he  used  to  gamble,  and 
was  getting  a  bad  name.  Afterward  he  began  drinking, 
and  he  took  to  gambling  harder  than  ever.  Presently 
his  money  all  went  and  he  had  to  work;  but  his  bad 
habits  had  fastened  on  him,  and  now  he  lives  from  hand 
to  mouth,  sometimes  working  for  a  month,  sometimes 
idle  for  months.  There's  something  sinister  about  him, 
there's  some  mystery;  for  poverty,  or  drink  even — and 
he  doesn't  drink  much  now — couldn't  make  him  what  he 
is.  He  doesn't  seek  company,  and  he  walks  sometimes 
endless  miles  talking  to  himself,  going  as  hard  as  he  can. 
How  did  you  come  to  speak  to  him,  Grace?" 

She  told  him  all,  with  a  curious  abstraction  in  her 

319 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

voice,  for  she  was  thinking  of  the  man  from  a  stand- 
point which  her  companion  could  not  reaUze,  She  was 
also  trying  to  verify  something  in  her  memory.  Ten 
years  ago,  so  her  lover  had  just  said,  the  poor  wretch 
behind  them  had  been  a  different  man;  and  there  had 
shot  into  her  mind  the  face  of  a  ranchman  she  had  seen 
with  her  father,  the  railway  king,  one  evening  when  his 
"special"  had  stopped  at  a  railway  station  on  his  tour 
through  Montana — ten  years  ago.  Why  did  the  face  of 
the  ranchman  which  had  fixed  itself  on  her  memory  then, 
because  he  had  come  on  the  evening  of  her  birthday  and 
had  spoiled  it  for  her,  having  taken  her  father  away  from 
her  for  an  hour — why  did  his  face  come  to  her  now? 
What  had  it  to  do  with  the  face  of  this  outcast  she  had 
just  left? 

"What  is  his  name?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"Roger  Lygon,"  he  answered. 

"Roger  Lygon,"  she  repeated,  mechanically.  Some- 
thing in  the  man  chained  her  thought — his  face  that 
moment  when  her  hand  saved  him  and  the  awful  fear 
left  him  and  a  glimmer  of  light  came  into  his  eyes. 

But  her  lover  beside  her  broke  into  song.  He  was 
happy  with  her.  Everything  was  before  him,  her 
beauty,  her  wealth,  herself.  He  could  not  dwell  upon 
dismal  things;  his  voice  rang  out  on  the  sharp,  sweet, 
evening  air: 

"*Oh,  where  did  you  get  them,  the  bonny,  bonny  roses 
That  blossom   in  your  cheeks,   and  the  morning  in 
your  eyes?' 
'I  got  them  on  the  North  Trail,  the  road  that  never 
closes. 
That  widens  to  the  seven  gold  gates  of  paradise.' 
'Oh,  come,  let  us  camp  in  the  North  Trail  together, 
With  the  night-fires  lit  and  the  tent-pegs  down.'" 

Left  alone,  the  man  by  the  reedy  lake  stood  watching 

320 


THE    WHISPERER 

them  until  they  were  out  of  view.     The  song  came  back 
to  him,  echoing  across  the  waters: 

"  '  Oh,  come,  let  us  camp  on  the  North  Trail  together, 

With  the  night-fires  lit  and  the  tent-pegs  down.'" 

The  sunset  glow,  the  girl's  presence,  had  given  him 
a  moment's  illusion,  had  absorbed  him  for  a  moment, 
acting  on  his  deadened  nature  like  a  narcotic  at  once 
soothing  and  stimulating.  As  some  wild  animal  in  a 
forgotten  land,  coming  upon  ruins  of  a  vast  civilization, 
towers,  temples  and  palaces,  in  the  golden  glow  of  an 
Eastern  evening,  stands  abashed  and  vaguely  wonder- 
ing, having  neither  reason  to  understand  nor  feeling 
to  enjoy,  yet  is  arrested  and  abashed,  so  he  stood. 
He  had  lived  the  last  three  years  so  much  alone,  had 
been  cut  ofE  so  completely  from  his  kind — had  lived 
so  much  alone.  Yet  to-night,  at  last,  he  would  not  be 
alone. 

Some  one  was  coming  to-night,  some  one  whom  he 
had  not  seen  for  a  long  time.  Letters  had  passed,  the 
object  of  the  visit  had  been  defined,  and  he  had  spent 
the  intervening  days  since  the  last  letter  had  arrived, 
now  agitated,  now  apathetic  and  sullen,  now  struggling 
with  some  invisible  being  that  kept  whispering  in  his 
ear,  saying  to  him:  "It  was  the  price  of  fire  and  blood 
and  shame.  You  did  it — you — you — you!  You  are 
down,  and  you  will  never  get  up.  You  can  only  go 
lower  still — fire  and  blood  and  shame!" 

Criminal  as  he  was,  he  had  never  become  hardened, 
he  had  only  become  degraded.  Crime  was  not  his 
vocation.  He  had  no  gift  for  it;  still,  the  crime  he  had 
committed  had  never  been  discovered — the  crime  that 
he  did  with  others.  There  were  himself  and  Dupont 
and  another.  Dupont  was  coming  to-night  —  Dupont, 
who  had  profited  by  the  crime,  and  had  not  spent  his 
profits,  but  had  built  upon  them  to  further  profit;  for 

321 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Dupont  was  avaricious  and  prudent,  and  a  born  criminal. 
Dupont  had  never  had  any  compunctions  or  remorse,  had 
never  lost  a  night's  sleep  because  of  what  they  two  had 
done,  instigated  thereto  by  the  other,  who  had  paid  them 
so  well  for  the  dark  thing. 

The  other  was  Henderley,  the  financier.  He  was 
worse  perhaps  than  Dupont,  for  he  was  in  a  different 
sphere  of  life,  was  rich  beyond  counting,  and  had  been 
early  nurtured  in  quiet  Christian  surroundings.  The 
spirit  of  ambition,  rivalry,  and  the  methods  of  a  de- 
generate and  cruel  finance  had  seized  him,  mastered 
him;  so  that,  under  the  cloak  of  power — as  a  toreador 
hides  the  blade  under  the  red  cloth  before  his  enemy  the 
toro — he  held  a  sword  of  capital  which  did  cruel  and 
vicious  things,  at  last  becoming  criminal  also.  Hen- 
derley had  incited  and  paid;  the  others,  Dupont  and 
Lygon,  had  acted  and  received.  Henderley  had  had  no 
remorse,  none  at  any  rate  that  weighed  upon  him,  for 
he  had  got  used  to  ruining  rivals  and  seeing  strong  men 
go  down,  and  those  who  had  fought  him  come  to  beg 
or  borrow  of  him  in  the  end.  He  had  seen  more  than 
one  commit  suicide,  and  those  they  loved  go  down  and 
farther  down,  and  he  had  helped  these  up  a  little,  but 
not  near  enough  to  put  them  near  his  own  plane  again; 
and  he  could  not  see — it  never  occurred  to  him — that  he 
had  done  any  evil  to  them.  Dupont  thought  upon  his 
crimes  now  and  then,  and  his  heart  hardened,  for  he 
had  no  moral  feeling;  Henderley  did  not  think  at  all. 
It  was  left  to  the  man  of  the  reedy  lake  to  pay  the 
penalty  of  apprehension,  to  suffer  the  effects  of  crime 
upon  a  nature  not  naturally  criminal. 

Again  and  again,  how  many  hundreds  of  times,  had 
Roger  Lygon  seen  in  his  sleep — had  even  seen  awake, 
so  did  hallucination  possess  him — the  new  cattle  trail 
he  had  fired  for  scores  of  miles.  The  fire  had  destroyed 
the  grass  over  millions  of  acres,  two  houses  had  been 

322 


THE    WHISPERER 

burned  and  three  people  had  lost  their  lives ;  all  to  satisfy 
the  savage  desire  of  one  man,  to  destroy  the  chance  of 
a  cattle  trade  over  a  great  section  of  country  for  the 
railway  which  was  to  compete  with  his  own — an  act 
which,  in  the  end,  was  futile,  failed  of  its  purpose. 
Dupont  and  Lygon  had  been  paid  their  price,  and  had 
disappeared  and  been  forgotten — they  were  but  pawns 
in  his  game — and  there  was  no  proof  against  Henderley. 
Henderley  had  forgotten.  Lygon  wished  to  forget,  but 
Dupont  remembered,  and  meant  now  to  reap  fresh  profit 
by  the  remembrance. 

Dupont  was  coming  to  -  night,  and  the  hatchet  of 
crime  was  to  be  dug  up  again.  So  it  had  been 
planned. 

As  the  shadows  fell,  Lygon  roused  himself  from  his 
trance  with  a  shiver.  It  was  not  cold,  but  in  him  there 
was  a  nervous  agitation,  making  him  cold  from  head  to 
foot;  his  body  seemed  as  impoverished  as  his  mind. 
Looking  with  heavy-lidded  eyes  across  the  prairie,  he 
saw  in  the  distance  the  barracks  of  the  Riders  of  the 
Plains  and  the  jail  near  by,  and  his  shuddering  ceased. 
There  was  where  he  belonged,  within  four  stone  walls; 
yet  here  he  was  free  to  go  where  he  willed,  to  live  as 
he  willed,  with  no  eye  upon  him.  With  no  eye  upon 
him?  There  was  no  eye,  but  there  was  the  Whisperer 
whom  he  could  never  drive  away.  Morning  and  night 
he  heard  the  words:  "You — you — you!  Fire  and  blood 
and  shame!"  He  had  snatched  sleep  when  he  could 
find  it,  after  long,  long  hours  of  tramping  over  the 
plains,  ostensibly  to  shoot  wild  fowl,  but  in  truth  to 
bring  on  a  great  bodily  fatigue — and  sleep.  His  sleep 
only  came  then  in  the  first  watches  of  the  night.  As 
the  night  wore  on  the  Whisperer  began  again,  as  the 
cloud  of  weariness  lifted  a  little  from  him  and  the  senses 
were  released  from  the  heavy  sedative  of  unnatural  ex- 
ertion. 


22 


2^3 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

The  dusk  deepened.  The  moon  slowly  rose.  He 
cooked  his  scanty  meal  and  took  a  deep  draught  from 
a  horn  of  whiskey  from  beneath  a  board  in  the  flooring. 
He  had  not  the  courage  to  face  Dupont  without  it,  nor 
yet  to  forget  what  he  must  forget  if  he  was  to  do  the 
work  Dupont  came  to  arrange — he  must  forget  the  girl 
who  had  saved  his  life  and  the  influence  of  those  strange 
moments  in  which  she  had  spoken  down  to  him,  in  the 
abyss  where  he  had  been  lying. 

He  sat  in  the  doorway,  a  fire  gleaming  behind 
him;  he  drank  in  the  good  air  as  though  his  lungs  were 
thirsty  for  it,  and  saw  the  silver  glitter  of  the  moon 
upon  the  water.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred,  and  the 
shining  path  the  moon  made  upon  the  reedy  lake 
fascinated  his  eye.  Everything  was  so  still  except 
that  whisper,  louder  in  his  ear  than  it  had  ever  been 
before. 

Suddenly,  upon  the  silver  path  upon  the  lake  there 
shot  a  silent  canoe,  with  a  figure  as  silently  paddling 
toward  him.  He  gazed  for  a  moment  dismayed,  and 
then  got  to  his  feet  with  a  jerk. 

"Dupont,"  he  said,  mechanically. 

The  canoe  swished  among  the  reeds  and  rushes, 
scraped  on  the  shore,  and  a  tall,  burly  figure  sprang 
from  it  and  stood  still,  looking  at  the  house. 

"Qui  reste  la — Lygon?"  he  asked. 

"  Dupont,"  was  the  nervous,  hesitating  reply. 

Dupont  came  forward  quickly.  "  Ah,  ben,  here  we  are 
again — so,"  he  grunted,  cheerily. 

Entering  the  house,  they  sat  before  the  fire,  holding 
their  hands  to  the  warmth  from  force  of  habit,  though 
the  night  was  not  cold. 

"Ben,  you  will  do  it  to-night— then ? "  Dupont  said. 
" Sacre,  it  is  time!" 

"Do  what?"  rejoined  the  other,  heavily. 

An  angry  light  leaped  into  Dupont's  eyes.     "  You  not 

324 


THE    WHISPERER 

unnerstan'  my  letters — bah!     You  know  it  all  right,  so 
queeck." 

The  other  remained  silent,  staring  into  the  fire  with 
wide,  searching  eyes. 

Dupont  put  a  hand  on  him.  "  You  ketch  my  idee 
queeck.  We  mus'  have  more  money  from  that  Hen- 
derley — certainlee.  It  is  ten  years,  and  he  t'ink  it  is 
all  right.  He  t'ink  we  come  no  more  becos'  he  give 
five  t'ousand  dollars  to  us  each.  That  was  to  do  the 
t'ing,  to  fire  the  country.  Now  we  want  another  ten 
t'ousan'  to  us  each,  to  forget  we  do  it  for  him — hein?" 

Still  there  was  no  reply.  Dupont  went  on,  watching 
the  other  furtively,  for  he  did  not  like  this  silence.  But 
he  would  not  resent  it  till  he  was  sure  there  was  good 
cause. 

"  It  comes  to  suit  us.  He  is  over  there  at  the  Old 
Man  Lak',  where  you  can  get  at  him  easy,  not  like 
in  the  city  where  he  lif.  Over  in  the  States,  he  laugh 
mebbe,  becos'  he  is  at  home,  an'  can  buy  off  the  law. 
But  here — it  is  Canadaw,  an'  they  not  care  eef  he  have 
hunder'  meellion  dollar.  He  know  that — sure.  Eef  you 
say  you  not  care  a  dam  to  go  to  jail,  so  you  can  put  him 
there,  too,  becos'  you  have  not'ing,  an'  so  dam  seeck 
of  every  t'ing,  he  will  t'ink  ten  t'ousan'  dollar  same  as  one 
cent  to  Nic  Dupont — ben  s4r!" 

Lygon  nodded  his  head,  still  holding  his  hands  to  the 
blaze.  With  ten  thousand  dollars  he  could  get  away 
into — into  another  world  somewhere,  some  world  where 
he  could  forget,  as  he  forgot  for  a  moment  this  afternoon 
when  the  girl  said  to  him,  "  It  is  never  too  late  to  mend.'' 

Now,  as  he  thought  of  her,  he  pulled  his  coat  together 
and  arranged  the  rough  scarf  at  his  neck  involunta- 
rily. Ten  thousand  dollars — but  ten  thousand  dollars 
by  blackmail,  hush-money,  the  reward  of  fire  and  blood 
and  shame!  Was  it  to  go  on?  Was  he  to  commit  a 
new  crime  ? 

325 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

He  stirred,  as  though  to  shake  off  the  net  that  he  felt 
twisting  round  him,  in  the  hands  of  the  robust  and 
powerful  Dupont,  on  whom  crime  sat  so  lightly,  who 
had  flourished  while  he,  Lygon,  had  gone  lower  and 
lower.  Ten  years  ago  he  had  been  the  better  man,  had 
taken  the  lead,  was  the  master,  Dupont  the  obedient 
confederate,  the  tool.  Now,  Dupont,  once  the  rough 
river-driver,  grown  prosperous  in  a  large  way  for  him — 
who  might  yet  be  mayor  of  his  town  in  Quebec — he 
held  the  rod  of  rule.  Lygon  was  conscious  that  the 
fifty  dollars  sent  him  every  New  Year  for  five  years  by 
Dupont  had  been  sent  with  a  purpose,  and  that  he  was 
now  Dupont's  tool.  Debilitated,  demoralized,  how  could 
he,  even  if  he  wished,  struggle  against  this  powerful 
confederate,  as  powerful  in  will  as  in  body?  Yet  if  he 
had  his  own  way  he  would  not  go  to  Henderley.  He 
had  lived  with  a  "familiar  spirit"  so  long,  he  feared 
the  issue  of  this  next  excursion  into  the  fens  of  crime. 

Dupont  was  on  his  feet  now.  "  He  will  be  here  only 
three  days  more — I  haf  find  it  so.  To-night  it  mus'  be 
done.  As  we  go  I  will  tell  you  what  to  say.  I  will 
wait  at  the  Forks,  an'  we  will  come  back  togedder. 
His  check  will  do.  Eef  he  gif  at  all,  the  check  is  all 
right.  He  will  not  stop  it.  Eef  he  have  the  money,  it  is 
better — 5acr^— yes.  Eef  he  not  gif— well,  I  will  tell  you, 
there  is  the  other  railway  man  he  try  to  hurt,  how  would 
he  like —  But  I  will  tell  you  on  the  river.  Maint'nant 
— queeck,  we  go." 

Without  a  word  Lygon  took  down  another  coat  and 
put  it  on.  Doing  so  he  concealed  a  weapon  quickly, 
as  Dupont  stooped  to  pick  a  coal  for  his  pipe  from  the 
blaze.  Lygon  had  no  fixed  purpose  in  taking  a  weapon 
with  him;  it  was  only  a  vague  instinct  of  caution  that 
moved  him. 

In  the  canoe  on  the  river,  in  an  almost  speechless 
apathy,  he  heard  Dupont's  voice  giving  him  instructions. 

326 


THE    WHISPERER 

Henderley,  the  financier,  had  just  finished  his  game  of 
whist  and  dismissed  his  friends — it  was  equivalent  to 
dismissal,  rough  yet  genial  as  he  seemed  to  be,  so  did 
immense  wealth  and  its  accompanying  power  affect  his 
relations  with  those  about  him.  In  everything  he  was 
"considered."  He  was  in  good-humor,  for  he  had  won 
all  the  evening,  and  with  a  smile  he  rubbed  his  hands 
among  the  notes — three  thousand  dollars  it  was.  It 
was  like  a  man  with  a  pocketful  of  money  chuckling 
over  a  coin  he  had  found  in  the  street.  Presently  he 
heard  a  rustle  of  the  inner  tent -curtain  and  swung 
round.     He  faced  the  man  from  the  reedy  lake. 

Instinctively  he  glanced  round  for  a  weapon,  mechan- 
ically his  hands  firmly  grasped  the  chair  in  front  of  him. 
He  had  been  in  danger  of  his  life  many  times,  and  he 
had  no  fear.  He  had  been  threatened  with  assassination 
more  than  once,  and  he  had  got  used  to  the  idea  of 
danger;  life  to  him  was  only  a  game. 

He  kept  his  nerve;  he  did  not  call  out;  he  looked  his 
visitor  in  the  eyes. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?    Who  are  you?"  he  said. 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  answered  Lygon,  gazing  in- 
tently at  him. 

Face  to  face  with  the  man  who  had  tempted  him  to 
crime,  Lygon  had  a  new  sense  of  boldness,  a  sudden 
feeling  of  reprisal,  a  rushing  desire  to  put  the  screw  upon 
him.  At  sight  of  this  millionaire  with  the  pile  of  notes 
before  him  there  vanished  the  sickening  hesitation  of 
the  afternoon,  of  the  journey  with  Dupont.  The  look 
of  the  robust,  healthy  financier  was  like  acid  in  a  wound; 
it  maddened  him. 

"You  will  know  me  better  soon,"  Lygon  added,  his 
head  twitching  with  excitement. 

Henderley  recognized  him  now.  He  gripped  the  arm- 
chair spasmodically,  but  presently  regained  a  complete 
composure.     He  knew  the  game  that  was  forward  here, 

327 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

and  he  also  thought  that  if  once  he  yielded  to  blackmail 
there  would  never  be  an  end  to  it.  He  made  no  pretence, 
but  came  straight  to  the  point. 

"You  can  do  nothing;  there  is  no  proof,"  he  said, 
with  firm  assurance. 

"There  is  Dupont,"  answered  Lygon,  doggedly. 

"Who  is  Dupont?" 

"The  French  Canadian  who  helped  me — I  divided 
with  him." 

"  You  said  the  man  who  helped  you  died.  You  wrote 
that  to  me.     I  suppose  you  are  lying  now." 

Henderley  coolly  straightened  the  notes  on  the  table, 
smoothing  out  the  wrinkles,  arranging  them  according 
to  their  denominations  with  an  apparently  interested 
eye;  yet  he  was  vigilantly  watching  the  outcast  before 
him.  To  yield  to  blackmail  would  be  fatal ;  not  to  yield 
to  it — he  could  not  see  his  way.  He  had  long  ago  for- 
gotten the  fire  and  blood  and  shame.  No  Whisperer 
reminded  him  of  that  black  page  in  the  history  of  his 
life;  he  had  been  immune  of  conscience.  He  could  not 
understand  this  man  before  him.  It  was  as  bad  a  case 
of  human  degradation  as  ever  he  had  seen — he  re- 
membered the  stalwart,  if  dissipated,  ranchman  who 
had  acted  on  his  instigation.  He  knew  now  that  he 
had  made  a  foolish  blunder  then,  that  the  scheme  had 
been  one  of  his  failures;  but  he  had  never  looked  on  it 
as  with  eyes  reproving  crime.  As  a  hundred  thoughts 
tending  toward  the  solution  of  the  problem  by  which 
he  was  faced  flashed  through  his  mind,  and  he  rejected 
them  all,  he  repeated  mechanically  the  phrase  "  I  sup- 
pose you  are  lying  now." 

"Dupont  is  here — not  a  mile  away,"  was  the  reply. 
"  He  will  give  proof.  He  would  go  to  jail  or  to  the 
gallows  to  put  you  there,  if  you  do  not  pay.  He  is  a 
devil — Dupont." 

Still  the  great  man  could  not  see  his  way  out.     He 

328 


THE    WHISPERER 

must  temporize  for  a  little  longer,  for  rashness  might 
bring  scandal  or  noise;  and  near  by  was  his  daughter, 
the  apple  of  his  eye. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  How  much  did  you  figure  you 
could  get  out  of  me,  if  I  let  you  bleed  me?"  he  asked, 
sneeringly  and  coolly.     "  Come  now,  how  much  ? " 

Lygon,  in  whom  a  blind  hatred  of  the  man  still  raged, 
was  about  to  reply,  when  he  heard  a  voice  calling, 
"Daddy,  Daddy!" 

Suddenly  the  red,  half  -  insane  light  died  down  in 
Lygon's  eyes.  He  saw  the  snake  upon  the  ground  by 
the  reedy  lake,  the  girl  standing  over  it — the  girl  with 
the  tawny  hair.     This  was  her  voice. 

Henderley  had  made  a  step  toward  a  curtain  opening 
into  another  room  of  the  great  tent,  but  before  he  could 
reach  it  the  curtain  was  pushed  back  and  the  girl  entered 
with  a  smile. 

"  May  I  come  in  ? "  she  said ;  then  stood  still,  astonished, 
seeing  Lygon. 

"Oh!"  she  exclauned.     "Oh— you!" 

All  at  once  a  look  came  into  her  face  which  stirred  it 
as  a  flying  insect  stirs  the  water  of  a  pool.  On  the 
instant  she  remembered  that  she  had  seen  the  man 
before. 

It  was  ten  years  ago  in  Montana,  on  the  night  of  her 
birthday.  Her  father  had  been  called  away  to  talk  with 
this  man,  and  she  had  seen  him  from  the  steps  of  the 
"  special."  It  was  only  the  caricature  of  the  once  strong, 
erect  ranchman  that  she  saw;  but  there  was  no  mistake, 
she  recognized  him  now. 

Lygon,  dumfounded,  looked  from  her  to  her  father, 
and  he  saw  now  in  Henderley's  eyes  a  fear  that  was  not 
to  be  misunderstood. 

Here  was  where  Henderley  could  be  smitten,  could 
be  brought  to  his  knees.  It  was  the  vulnerable  part  of 
him.     Lygon  could  see  that  he  was  stunned.     The  great 

329 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

financier  was  in  his  power.  He  looked  back  again  to 
the  girl,  and  her  face  was  full  of  trouble. 

A  sharp  suspicion  was  in  her  heart  that  somehow  or 
other  her  father  was  responsible  for  this  man's  degrada- 
tion and  ruin.     She  looked  Lygon  in  the  eyes. 

"Did  you  want  to  see  me?"  she  asked. 

She  scarcely  knew  why  she  said  it ;  but  she  was  sensible 
of  trouble,  maybe  of  tragedy,  somewhere;  and  she  had 
a  vague  dread  of  she  knew  not  what,  for,  hide  it,  avoid  it, 
as  she  had  done  so  often,  there  was  in  her  heart  an  un- 
happy doubt  concerning  her  father. 

A  great  change  had  come  over  Lygon.  Her  presence 
had  altered  him.  He  was  again  where  she  had  left  him 
in  the  afternoon. 

He  heard  her  say  to  her  father:  "This  was  the  man 
I  told  you  of — at  the  reedy  lake.  Did  you  come  to  see 
me?"  she  repeated. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  here,"  he  answered.  "  I 
came" — he  was  conscious  of  Henderley's  staring  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  helplessly — "  I  came  to  ask  your  father  if 
he  would  not  buy  my  shack.  There  is  good  shooting  at 
the  lake;  the  ducks  come  plenty,  sometimes.  I  want 
to  get  away,  to  start  again  somewhere.  I've  been  a 
failure.  I  want  to  get  away,  right  away  south.  If  he 
would  buy  it,  I  could  start  again.     I've  had  no  luck." 

He  had  invented  it  on  the  moment,  but  the  girl 
understood  better  than  Lygon  or  Henderley  could  have 
dreamed.     She  had  seen  the  change  pass  over  Lygon. 

Henderley  had  a  hand  on  himself  again,  and  the 
startled  look  went  out  of  his  eyes. 

"What  do  you  want  for  your  shack  and  the  lake?"  he 
asked,  with  restored  confidence.  The  fellow  no  doubt 
was  grateful  that  his  daughter  had  saved  his  life,  he 
thought. 

"  Five  hundred  dollars,"  answered  Lygon,  quickly. 

Henderley  would  have  handed  over  all  that  lay  on 

330 


THE    WHISPERER 

the  table  before  him,  but  he  thought  it  better  not  to 
do  so.  "I'll  buy  it,"  he  said.  "You  seem  to  have 
been  hit  hard.  Here  is  the  money.  Bring  me  the 
deed  to-morrow — to-morrow." 

"I'll  not  take  the  money  till  I  give  you  the  deed," 
said  Lygon.  "  It  will  do  to-morrow.  It's  doing  me  a 
good  turn.  I'll  get  away  and  start  again  somewhere. 
I've  done  no  good  up  here.  Thank  you,  sir  —  thank 
you." 

Before  they  realized  it,  the  tent-curtain  rose  and  fell, 
and  he  was  gone  into  the  night. 

The  trouble  was  still  deep  in  the  girl's  eyes  as  she 
kissed  her  father,  and  he,  with  an  overdone  cheerfulness, 
wished  her  a  good-night. 

The  man  of  iron  had  been  changed  into  a  man  of 
straw  once  at  least  in  his  lifetime. 

Lygon  found  Dupont  at  the  Forks. 

"Eh,  ben,  it  is  all  right — yes?"  Dupont  asked,  eagerly, 
as  Lygon  joined  him. 

"Yes,  it  is  all  right,"  answered  Lygon. 

With  an  exulting  laugh  and  an  obscene  oath,  Dupont 
pushed  out  the  canoe,  and  they  got  away  into  the  moon- 
light. No  word  was  spoken  for  some  distance,  but  Du- 
pont kept  giving  grunts  of  satisfaction. 

"  You  got  the  ten  t'ousan'  each  —  in  cash  or  check, 
eh?     The  check  or  the  money — hein?" 

"I've  got  nothing,"  answered  Lygon. 

Dupont  dropped  his  paddle  with  a  curse. 

"You  got  not'ing!  You  said  eet  was  all  right!"  he 
growled. 

"  It  is  all  right.  I  got  nothing.  I  asked  for  nothing. 
I  have  had  enough.     I  have  finished." 

With  a  roar  of  rage  Dupont  sprang  on  him,  and  caught 
him  by  the  throat  as  the  canoe  swayed  and  dipped. 
He  was  blind  with  fury. 

331 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

Lygon  tried  with  one  hand  for  his  knife,  and  got  it, 
but  the  pressure  on  his  throat  was  growing  terrible. 

For  minutes  the  struggle  continued,  for  Lygon  was 
fighting  with  the  desperation  of  one  who  makes  his  last 
awful  onset  against  fate  and  doom. 

Dupont  also  had  his  knife  at  work.  At  last  it  drank 
blood,  but  as  he  got  it  home  he  suddenly  reeled  blindly, 
lost  his  balance,  and  lurched  into  the  water  with  a 
groan. 

Lygon,  weapon  in  hand  and  bleeding  freely,  waited 
for  him  to  rise  and  make  for  the  canoe  again. 

Ten,  twenty,  fifty  seconds  passed.  Dupont  did  not 
rise.  A  minute  went  by,  and  still  there  was  no  stir,  no 
sign.  Dupont  would  never  rise  again.  In  his  wild  rage 
he  had  burst  a  blood-vessel  on  the  brain. 

Lygon  bound  up  his  reeking  wound  as  best  he  could. 
He  did  it  calmly,  whispering  to  himself  the  while. 

"  I  must  do  it.  I  must  get  there  if  I  can.  I  will  not 
be  afraid  to  die  then,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

Presently  he  grasped  an  oar  and  paddled  feebly. 

A  slight  wind  had  risen,  and,  as  he  turned  the  boat  in 
to  face  the  Forks  again,  it  helped  to  carry  the  canoe  to 
the  landing-place. 

Lygon  dragged  himself  out.  He  did  not  try  to  draw 
the  canoe  up,  but  began  this  journey  of  a  mile  back  to 
the  tent  he  had  left  so  recently.  First,  step  by  step, 
leaning  against  trees,  drawing  himself  forward,  a  journey 
as  long  to  his  determined  mind  as  from  youth  to  age. 
Would  it  never  end?  It  seemed  a  terrible  climbing-up 
the  sides  of  a  cliff,  and,  as  he  struggled  fainting  on,  all 
sorts  of  sounds  were  in  his  ears,  but  he  realized  that  the 
Whisperer  was  no  longer  there.  The  sounds  he  heard 
did  not  torture,  they  helped  his  stumbling  feet.  They 
were  like  the  murmur  of  waters,  like  the  sounds  of  the 
forest  and  soft,  booming  bells.  But  the  bells  were  only 
the  beatings  of  his  heart — so  loud,  so  swift. 

332 


FOR      MINUTES     THE     STRUGGLE     CONTINUED 


THE    WHISPERER 

He  was  on  his  knees  now,  crawling  on — on — on.  At 
last  there  came  a  Hght,  suddenly  bursting  on  him  from 
a  tent  he  was  so  near.  Then  he  called,  and  called 
again,  and  fell  forward  on  his  face.  But  now  he  heard 
a  voice  above  him.  It  was  her  voice.  He  had  blindly 
struggled  on  to  die  near  her,  near  where  she  was,  she 
was  so  pitiful  and  good. 

He  had  accomplished  his  journey,  and  her  voice  was 
speaking  above  him.  There  were  other  voices,  but  it 
was  only  hers  that  he  heard. 

"God  help  him — oh,  God  help  him!"  she  was  saying. 

He  drew  a  long,  quiet  breath.  "  I  will  sleep  now,"  he 
said,  clearly. 

He  would  hear  the  Whisperer  no  more. 


AS  DEEP  AS  THE  SEA 

"What  can  I  do,  Dan?  I'm  broke,  too.  My  last 
dollar  went  to  pay  my  last  debt  to-day.  I've  nothing 
but  what  I  stand  in.  I've  got  prospects,  but  I  can't 
discount  prospects  at  the  banks."  The  speaker  laughed 
bitterly.  "  I've  reaped  and  I'm  sowing,  the  same  as 
you,  Dan." 

The  other  made  a  nervous  motion  of  protest.  "No; 
not  the  same  as  me,  Flood — not  the  same.  It's  sink 
or  swim  with  me,  and  if  you  can't  help  me — oh,  I'd 
take  my  gruel  without  whining,  if  it  wasn't  for  Di! 
It's  that  that  knocks  me  over.  It's  the  shame  to  her. 
Oh,  what  a  cursed  ass  and  fool — and  thief,  I've  beenl" 

"Thief?— thief?" 

Flood  Rawley  dropped  the  flaming  match  with  which 
he  was  about  to  light  a  cheroot,  and  stood  staring,  his 
dark-blue  eyes  growing  wider,  his  worn,  handsome  face 
becoming  drawn,  as  swift  conviction  mastered  him. 
He  felt  that  the  black  words  which  had  fallen  from  his 
friend's  lips — from  the  lips  of  Diana  Welldon's  brother 
— were  the  truth.  He  looked  at  the  plump  face,  the 
full,  amiable  eyes,  now  misty  with  fright,  at  the  char- 
acterless hand  nervously  feeling  the  golden  mustache, 
at  the  well-fed,  inert  body;  and  he  knew  that,  whatever 
the  trouble  or  the  peril,  Dan  Welldon  could  not  sur- 
mount it  alone. 

"What  is  it?"  Rawley  asked,  rather  sharply,  his  fin- 
gers running  through  his  slightly  grizzled  black   hair, 

334 


AS    DEEP    AS    THE    SEA 

but  not  excitedly,  for  he  wanted  no  scenes;  and  if  this 
thing  could  hurt  Di  Welldon,  and  action  was  necessary, 
he  must  remain  cool.  What  she  was  to  do,  Heaven  and 
he  only  knew;  what  she  had  done  for  him,  perhaps 
neither  understood  fully  as  yet.  "What  is  it — quick?" 
he  added,  and  his  words  were  like  a  sharp  grip  upon  Dan 
Welldon's  shoulder.     "  Racing  ? — cards  ? " 

Dan  nodded.  "Yes,  over  at  Askatoon;  five  hundred 
on  Jibway,  the  favorite — he  fell  at  the  last  fence;  five 
hundred  at  poker  with  Nick  Fison;  and  a  thousand 
in  land  speculation  at  Edmonton,  on  margin.  Every- 
thing went  wrong." 

"And  so  you  put  your  hand  in  the  railway  company's 
money-chest  ? " 

"It  seemed  such  a  dead  certainty — Jibway;  and  the 
Edmonton  corner-blocks,  too.  I'd  had  luck  with  Nick 
before;  but — well,  there  it  is,  Flood." 

"  They  know  —  the  railway  people  —  Shaughnessy 
knows  ? " 

"  Yes,  the  president  knows.  He's  at  Calgary  now. 
They  telegraphed  him,  and  he  wired  to  give  me  till 
midnight  to  pay  up  or  go  to  jail.  They're  watching 
me  now.  I  can't  stir.  There's  no  escape,  and  there's 
no  one  I  can  ask  for  help  but  you.  That's  why  I've 
come.  Flood." 

"Lord,  what  a  fool!  Couldn't  you  see  what  the  end 
would  be  if  your  plunging  didn't  come  off?  You  — 
you  oughtn't  to  bet,  or  speculate,  or  play  cards,  you're 
not  clever  enough.  You've  got  blind  rashness,  and  so 
you  think  you're  bold.  And  Di — oh,  you  idiot!  And 
on  a  salary  of  a  thousand  dollars  a  year!" 

"  I  suppose  Di  would  help  me;  but  I  couldn't  explain." 
The  weak  face  puckered,  a  lifeless  kind  of  tear  gathered 
in  the  ox-like  eyes. 

"Yes,  she  probably  would  help  you.  She'd  probably 
give  you  all  she's  saved  to  go  to  Europe  with  and  study, 

335 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

saved  from  her  pictures  sold  at  twenty  per  cent,  of 
their  value;  and  she'd  mortgage  the  little  income  she's 
got  to  keep  her  brother  out  of  jail.  Of  course  she  would, 
and  of  course  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  for 
thinking  of  it."  Rawley  lighted  his  cigar  and  smoked 
fiercely. 

"  It  would  be  better  for  her  than  my  going  to  jail," 
stubbornly  replied  the  other.  "  But  1  don't  want  to 
tell  her,  or  to  ask  her  for  money.  That's  why  I've 
come  to  you.  You  needn't  be  so  hard,  Flood;  you've 
not  been  a  saint;  and  Di  knows  it." 

Rawley  took  the  cheroot  from  his  mouth,  threw  back 
his  head,  and  laughed  mirthlessly,  ironically.  Then 
suddenly  he  stopped  and  looked  round  the  room  till 
his  eyes  rested  on  a  portrait-drawing  which  hung  on 
the  wall  opposite  the  window,  through  which  the  sun 
poured.  It  was  the  face  of  a  girl  with  beautiful  bronzed 
hair,  and  full,  fine,  beautifully  modelled  face,  with  brown 
eyes  deep  and  brooding,  w^hich  seemed  to  have  time 
and  space  behind  them — not  before  them.  The  lips 
were  delicate  and  full,  and  had  the  look  suggesting  a 
smile  which  the  inward  thought  has  stayed.  It  was 
like  one  of  the  Titian  women — like  a  Titian  that  hangs 
on  the  wall  of  the  Gallery  at  Munich.  The  head  and 
neck,  the  whole  personality,  had  an  air  of  distinction 
and  destiny.  The  drawing  had  been  done  by  a  wander- 
ing duchess  who  had  seen  the  girl  sketching  in  the  foot- 
hills when  on  a  visit  to  that  "Wild  West"  which  has 
such  power  to  refine  and  inspire  minds  not  superior 
to  Nature.  Its  replica  was  carried  to  a  castle  in  Scot- 
land. It  had  been  the  gift  of  Diana  Welldon  on  a 
certain  day  not  long  ago,  when  Flood  Rawley  had  made 
a  pledge  to  her,  which  was  as  vital  to  him  and  to  his 
future  as  two  thousand  dollars  were  vital  to  Dan  Well- 
don now. 

"  You've  not  been  a  saint,  and  Di  knows  it,"  repeated 


AS    DEEP    AS    THE    SEA 

the  weak  brother  of  a  girl  whose  fame  belonged  to  the 
West;  whose  name  was  a  signal  for  cheerful  looks;  whose 
buoyant  humor  and  impartial  friendliness  gained  her 
innumerable  friends;  and  whose  talent,  understood  by 
few,  gave  her  a  certain  protection,  lifting  her  a  little 
away  from  the  the  outwardly  crude  and  provincial  life 
around  her. 

When  Rawley  spoke,  it  was  with  quiet  deliberation, 
and  even  gentleness.  "  I  haven't  been  a  saint,  and  she 
knows  it,  as  you  say,  Dan;  but  the  law  is  on  my  side 
as  yet,  it  isn't  on  yours.     There's  the  difference." 

"  You  used  to  gamble  yourself;  you  w-ere  pretty  tough, 
and  you  oughtn't  to  walk  up  my  back  with  hobnailed 
boots." 

"  Yes,  I  gambled,  Dan,  and  I  drank,  and  I  raised  a 
dust  out  here.  My  record  was  writ  pretty  big.  But  I 
didn't  lay  my  hands  on  the  ark  of  the  social  covenant, 
whose  inscription  is,  Thou  shall  not  steal ;  and  that's  why 
I'm  poor  but  proud,  and  no  one's  watching  for  me  round 
the  comer,  same  as  you." 

Welldon's  half-defiant  petulance  disappeared.  "  What's 
done  can't  be  undone."  Then,  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
anguish,  "Oh,  get  me  out  of  this  somehow!" 

"How?  I've  got  no  money.  By  speaking  to  your 
sister?" 

The  other  was  silent. 

"Shall  I  do  it?"  Rawley  peered  anxiously  into  the 
other's  face,  and  he  knew  that  there  was  no  real  secu- 
rity against  the  shameful  trouble  being  laid  bare  to  her. 

"  I  want  a  chance  to  start  straight  again." 

The  voice  was  fluttered,  almost  whining;  it  carried 
no  conviction;  but  the  words  had  in  them  a  reminder 
of  words  that  Rawley  himself  had  said  to  Diana  Welldon 
but  a  few  months  ago,  and  a  new  spirit  stirred  in  him. 
He  stepped  forward  and,  gripping  Dan's  shoulder  with 
a  hand  of  steel,  said,  fiercely: 

337 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"  No,  Dan.  I'd  rather  take  you  to  her  in  your  coffin. 
She's  never  known  you,  never  seen  what  most  of  us 
have  seen,  that  all  you  have — or  nearly  all — is  your 
lovely  looks  and  what  they  call  a  kind  heart.  There's 
only  you  two  in  your  family,  and  she's  got  to  live  with 
you — awhile,  anyhow.  She  couldn't  stand  this  business. 
She  mustn't  stand  it.  She's  had  enough  to  put  up 
with  in  me ;  but  at  the  worst  she  could  pass  me  by  on  the 
other  side,  and  there  would  be  an  end.  It  would  have 
been  said  that  Flood  Rawley  had  got  his  deserts.  It's 
different  with  you."  His  voice  changed,  softened. 
"  Dan,  I  made  a  pledge  to  her  that  I'd  never  play  cards 
again  for  money  while  I  lived,  and  it  wasn't  a  thing 
to  take  on  without  some  cogitation.  But  I  cogitated, 
and  took  it  on,  and  started  life  over  again — me!  Began 
practising  law  again — barrister,  solicitor,  notary  public 
— at  forty.  And  at  last  I've  got  my  chance  in  a  big 
case  against  the  Canadian  Pacific.  It  '11  make  me  or 
break  me,  Dan.  .  .  .  There,  I  wanted  you  to  see  where  I 
stand  with  Di;  and  now  I  want  you  to  promise  me  that 
you'll  not  leave  these  rooms  till  I  see  you  again.  I'll 
get  you  clear;  I'll  save  you,  Dan." 

"Flood!  Oh,  my  God,  Flood!"  The  voice  was 
broken. 

"  You've  got  to  stay  here,  and  you're  to  remember 
not  to  get  the  funk,  even  if  I  don't  come  before  midnight. 
I'll  be  here  then,  if  I'm  aHve.  If  you  don't  keep  your 
word — ^but,  there,  you  will."  Both  hands  gripped  the 
graceful  shoulders  of  the  miscreant  like  a  vise. 

"So  help  me.  Flood,"  was  the  frightened,  whispered 
reply.  "  I'll  make  it  up  to  you  somehow,  some  day.  I'll 
pay  you  back." 

Rawley  caught  up  his  cap  from  the  table. 

"Steady!  —  steady!  Don't  go  at  a  fence  till  you're 
sure  of  your  seat,  Dan,"  he  said.  Then,  with  a  long 
look  at  the  portrait  on  the  wall   and  an  exclamation 

338 


AS    DEEP    AS    THE    SEA 

which  the  other  did  not  hear,  he  left  the  room  with  a 
set,  determined  face. 

"Who  told  you?  What  brought  you,  Flood?"  the 
girl  asked,  her  chin  in  her  long,  white  hands,  her  head 
turned  from  the  easel  to  him,  a  book  in  her  lap,  the  sun 
breaking  through  the  leaves  upon  her  hat,  touching  the 
Titian  hair  with  splendor. 

"Fate  brought  me,  and  didn't  tell  me,"  he  answered, 
with  a  whimsical  quirk  of  the  mouth  and  his  trouble 
lurking  behind  the  sea-deep  eyes. 

"Wouldn't  you  have  come  if  you  knew  I  was  here?" 
she  urged,  archly. 

"Not  for  two  thousand  dollars,"  he  answered,  the 
look  of  trouble  deepening  in  his  eyes,  but  his  lips  were 
smiling.  He  had  a  quaint  sense  of  humor,  and  at  his 
last  gasp  would  have  noted  the  ridiculous  thing.  And 
surely  it  was  a  droll  malignity  of  Fate  to  bring  him 
here  to  her  whom,  in  this  moment  of  all  moments  in 
his  life,  he  wished  far  away.  Fate  meant  to  try  him  to 
the  uttermost.     This  hurdle  of  trial  was  high,  indeed. 

"Two  thousand  dollars — nothing  less?"  she  inquired, 
gayly.     "You  are  too  specific  for  a  real  lover." 

"Fate  fixed  the  amount,"  he  added,  dryly. 

"Fate — you  talk  so  much  of  Fate,"  she  replied,  grave- 
ly, and  her  eyes  looked  into  the  distance.  "  You  make 
me  think  of  it,  too,  and  I  don't  want  to  do  so.  I  don't 
want  to  feel  helpless,  to  be  the  child  of  Accident  and 
Destiny." 

"Oh,  you  get  the  same  thing  in  the  'fore-ordination' 
that  old  Minister  M'Gregor  preaches  every  Sunday. 
'Be  elect  or  be  damned,'  he  says  to  us  all.  Names 
aren't  important;  but,  anyhow,  it  was  Fate  that  led  me 
here." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  wasn't  me  ? "  she  asked,  softly.  "  Are 
you  sure  I  wasn't  calling  you,  and  you  had  to  come?" 
23  339 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"Well,  it  was  en  route,  anyhow;  and  you  are  always 
calling,  if  I  must  tell  you,"  he  laughed.  Suddenly  he 
became  grave.  "  I  hear  you  call  me  in  the  night  some- 
times, and  I  start  up  and  say  '  Yes,  Di!'  out  of  my  sleep. 
It's  a  queer  hallucination.  I've  got  you  on  the  brain, 
certainly." 

"It  seems  to  vex  you — certainly,"  she  said,  opening 
the  book  that  lay  in  her  lap,  "  and  your  eyes  trouble  me 
to-day.  They've  got  a  look  that  used  to  be  in  them, 
Flood,  before — before  you  promised;  and  another  look 
I  don't  understand  and  don't  like.  I  suppose  it's  al- 
ways so.  The  real  business  of  life  is  trying  to  under- 
stand each  other." 

"  You  have  wonderful  thoughts  for  one  that's  had  so 
little  chance,"  he  said.  "  That's  because  you're  a  genius, 
I  suppose.  Teaching  can't  give  that  sort  of  thing — the 
insight." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Flood?"  she  asked,  suddenly, 
again,  her  breast  heaving,  her  delicate,  rounded  fingers 
interlacing.  "  I  heard  a  man  say  once  that  you  were  '  as 
deep  as  the  sea.'  He  did  not  mean  it  kindly,  but  I  do. 
You  are  in  trouble,  and  I  want  to  share  it  if  I  can. 
Where  were  you  going  when  you  came  across  me  here?" 

"To  see  old  Busby,  the  quack-doctor  up  there,"  he 
answered,  nodding  toward  a  shrubbed  and  wooded 
hillock  behind  them. 

"Old  Busby!"  she  rejoined,  in  amazement.  "What 
do  you  want  with  him — not  medicine  of  that  old  quack, 
that  dreadful  man?" 

"  He  cures  people  sometimes.  A  good  many  out  here 
owe  him  more  than  they'll  ever  pay  him." 

"  Is  he  as  rich  an  old  miser  as  they  say?" 

"  He  doesn't  look  rich,  does  he?"  was  the  enigmatical 
answer. 

"  Does  any  one  know  his  real  history  ?  He  didn't 
come  from  nowhere.     He  must  have  had  friends  once. 

340 


AS    DEEP    AS    THE    SEA 

Some  one  must  once  have  cared  for  him,  though  he 
seems  such  a  monster  now." 

"  Yet  he  cures  people  sometimes,"  he  rejoined,  ab- 
stractedly. "  Probably  there's  some  good  underneath. 
I'm  going  to  try  and  see." 

"  What  is  it  ?  What  is  your  business  with  him  ? 
Won't  you  tell  me?     Is  it  so  secret?" 

"  I  want  him  to  help  me  in  a  case  I've  got  in  hand. 
A  client  of  mine  is  in  trouble — you  mustn't  ask  about 
it;  and  he  can  help,  I  think — I  think  so."  He  got  to 
his  feet.  "I  must  be  going,  Di,"  he  added.  Suddenly 
a  flush  swept  over  his  face,  and  he  reached  out  and 
took  both  her  hands.  "  Oh,  you  are  a  million  times  too 
good  for  me!"  he  said.  "  But  if  all  goes  well,  I'll  do  my 
best  to  make  you  forget  it." 

"Wait — wait  one  moment,"  she  answered.  "Before 
you  go  I  want  you  to  hear  what  I've  been  reading  over 
and  over  to  myself  just  now.  It  is  from  a  book  I  got 
from  Quebec,  called  When  Time  Shall  Pass.  It  is  a 
story  of  two  like  you  and  me.  The  man  is  writing  to 
the  woman,  and  it  has  things  that  you  have  said  to  me 
— in  a  different  way." 

"  No,  I  don't  talk  like  a  book,  but  I  know  a  star  in  a 
dark  night  when  I  see  it,"  he  answered,  with  a  catch  in 
his  throat. 

"Hush!"  she  said,  catching  his  hand  in  hers  as  she 
read,  while  all  around  them  the  sounds  of  summer — 
the  distant  clack  of  a  reaper,  the  crack  of  a  whip,  the 
locusts  droning,  the  whir  of  a  young  partridge,  the 
squeak  of  a  chipmunk — were  tuned  to  the  harmony  of 
the  moment  and  her  voice: 

" '  Night  and  the  sombre  silence,  oh,  my  love,  and  one 
star  shining!  First,  warm,  velvety  sleep,  and  then  this 
quick,  quiet  waking  to  your  voice  which  seems  to  call  me. 
Is  it — is  it  you  that  calls?  Do  you  sometimes,  even  in 
your  dreams,  speak  to  me?     Far  beneath  unconsciousness 

341 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

is  there  the  summons  of  your  spirit  to  me?  ...  I  like  to 
think  so.  I  like  to  think  that  this  thing  which  has  come 
to  us  is  deeper,  greater  than  we  are.  Sometimes  day  and 
night  there  flash  before  my  eyes — my  mind's  eyes — pict- 
ures of  you  and  me  in  places  unfamiliar,  landscapes  never 
before  seen,  activities  uncomprehended  and  unknown, 
bright,  alluring  glimpses  of  some  second  being,  some  pos- 
sible, maybe  never-to-be-realized  future,  alas!  Yet  these 
swift-moving  shutters  of  the  sovil,  or  imagination,  or  reality 
— who  shall  say  which? — give  me  a  joy  never  before  felt 
in  life.  If  I  am  not  a  better  man  for  this  love  of  mine  for 
you,  I  am  more  than  I  was,  and  shall  be  more  than  I  am. 
Much  of  my  life  in  the  past  was  mean  and  small,  so  much 
that  I  have  said  and  done  has  been  unworthy — my  love 
for  you  is  too  sharp  a  light  for  my  gross  imperfections  of 
the  past!  Come  what  will,  be  what  must,  I  stake  my  life, 
my  heart,  my  soul  on  you — that  beautiful,  beloved  face; 
those  deep  eyes  in  which  my  being  is  drowned;  those  lucid, 
perfect  hands  that  have  bound  me  to  the  mast  of  your 
destiny.  I  cannot  go  back,  I  must  go  forward:  now  I 
must  keep  on  loving  you  or  be  shipwrecked.  I  did  not 
know  that  this  was  in  me,  this  tide  of  love,  this  current 
of  devotion.  Destiny  plays  me  beyond  my  ken,  beyond 
my  dreams.  "  O  Cithc^ron!"  Turn  from  me  now — or  never, 
O  my  love!  Loose  me  from  the  mast,  and  let  the  storm 
and  wave  wash  me  out  into  the  sea  of  yoiir  forgetfulness 
now — or  never!  .  .  .  But  keep  me,  keep  me,  if  your  love  is 
great  enough,  if  I  bring  you  any  light  or  joy;  for  I  am 
yours  to  my  uttermost  note  of  life.'" 

"He  knew!  —  he  knew!"  Rawley  said,  catching  her 
wrists  in  his  hands  and  drawing  her  to  him.  "If  I 
could  write,  that's  what  I  should  have  said  to  you, 
beautiful  and  beloved.  How  mean  and  small  and  ugly 
my  life  was  till  you  made  me  over!     I  was  a  bad  lot." 

"So  much  hung  on  one  little  promise,"  she  said,  and 
drew  closer  to  him.  "  You  wxre  never  bad,"  she  added; 
then,  with  an  arm  sweeping  the  universe,  "  Oh,  isn't  it 
all  good,  and  isn't  it  all  worth  living?" 

342 


"oh.      ISNT      IT     ALL     WORTH      LIVING?''     SHE     SAID 


AS    DEEP    AS    THE    SEA 

His  face  lost  its  glow.  Over  in  the  town  her  brother 
faced  a  ruined  life,  and  the  girl  beside  him  a  dark 
humiliation  and  a  shame  which  would  poison  her  life 
hereafter,  unless — his  look  turned  to  the  little  house 
where  the  quack-doctor  lived.     He  loosed  her  hands. 

"Now  for  Caliban,"  he  said. 

"I  shall  be  Ariel  and  follow  you — in  my  heart,"  she 
said.  "  Be  sure  and  make  him  tell  you  the  story  of 
his  life,"  she  added,  with  a  laugh,  as  his  lips  swept  the 
hair  behind  her  ears. 

As  he  moved  swiftly  away,  watching  his  long  strides, 
she  said,  proudly,  "As  deep  as  the  sea." 

After  a  moment  she  added :  "  And  he  was  once  a 
gambler,  until,  until" — she  glanced  at  the  open  book, 
then  with  sweet  mockery  looked  at  her  hands — "  until 
'those  lucid,  perfect  hands  bound  me  to  the  mast  of 
your  destiny.'  O  vain  Diana!  But  they  are  rather 
beautiful,"  she  added,  softly,  "and  I  am  rather  happy." 
There  was  something  like  a  gay  little  chuckle  in  her 
throat. 

"O  vain  Diana!"  she  repeated. 

Rawley  entered  the  door  of  the  hut  on  the  hill  without 
ceremony.  There  was  no  need  for  courtesy,  and  the 
work  he  had  come  to  do  could  be  easier  done  without  it. 

Old  Busby  was  crouched  over  a  table,  his  mouth 
lapping  milk  from  a  full  bowl  on  the  table.  He  scarcely 
raised  his  head  when  Rawley  entered — through  the  open 
door  he  had  seen  his  visitor  coming.  He  sipped  on,  his 
Straggling  beard  dripping.     There  was  silence  for  a  time. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  growled  at  last. 

"Finish  your  swill,  and  then  we  can  talk,"  said  Raw- 
ley,  carelessly.  He  took  a  chair  near  the  door,  lighted  a 
cheroot  and  smoked,  watching  the  old  man  as  he  tipped 
the  great  bowl  toward  his  face,  as  though  it  were  some 
wild   animal   feeding.     The   clothes  were   patched   and 

343 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

worn,  the  coat-front  was  spattered  with  stains  of  all 
kinds,  the  hair  and  beard  were  unkempt  and  long,  giv- 
ing him  what  would  have  been  the  look  of  a  mangy  lion 
but  that  the  face  had  the  expression  of  some  beast  less 
honorable.  The  eyes,  however,  were  malignantly  in- 
telligent ;  the  hands,  ill-cared  for,  were  long,  well-shaped, 
and  capable,  but  of  a  hateful  yellow  color  like  the  face. 
And  through  all  was  a  sense  of  power,  dark  and  almost 
mediaeval.  Secret,  evilly  wise,  and  inhuman,  he  looked 
a  being  apart,  whom  men  might  seek  for  help  in  dark 
purposes. 

"What  do  you  want — medicine?"  he  muttered  at 
last,  wiping  his  beard  and  mouth  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  and  the  palm  on  his  knees. 

Rawley  looked  at  the  ominous-looking  bottles  on  the 
shelves  above  the  old  man's  head,  at  the  forceps,  knives, 
and  other  surgical  instruments  on  the  walls — they  at 
least  were  bright  and  clean — and,  taking  the  cheroot 
slowly  from  his  mouth,  he  said: 

"  Shin-plasters  are  what  I  want.  A  friend  of  mine  has 
caught  his  leg  in  a  trap." 

The  old  man  gave  an  evil  chuckle  at  the  joke,  for  a 
"shin-plaster"  was  a  money-note  worth  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar, 

"I've  got  some,"  he  growled  in  reply,  "but  they  cost 
twenty-five  cents  each.  You  can  have  them  for  your 
friend  at  the  price." 

"  I  want  eight  thousand  of  them  from  you.  He's  hurt 
pretty  bad,"  was  the  dogged,  dry  answer. 

The  shaggy  eyebrows  of  the  quack  drcAv  together, 
and  the  eyes  peered  out  sharply  through  half-closed  lids. 
"There's  plenty  of  wanting  and  not  much  getting  in 
this  world,"  he  rejoined,  with  a  leer  of  contempt,  and 
spat  on  the  floor,  while  yet  the  furtive  watchfulness  of 
the  eyes  indicated  a  mind  ill  at  ease. 

Smoke  came  in  placid  puffs  from  the  cheroot — Rawley 

344 


AS    DEEP    AS    THE    SEA 

was  smoking  very  hard,  but  with  a  judicial  meditation, 
as  it  seemed. 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  want  a  thing  so  bad  that,  to  get  it, 
you'll  face  the  devil  or  the  Beast  of  Revelations,  it's 
likely  to  come  to  you." 

"You  call  me  a  beast?"  The  reddish-brown  face 
grew  black  like  that  of  a  Bedouin  in  his  rage. 

"  I  said  the  Beast  of  Revelations — don't  you  know  the 
Scriptures?" 

"  I  know  that  a  fool  is  to  be  answered  according  to 
his  folly,"  was  the  hoarse  reply,  and  the  great  head 
wagged  to  and  fro  in  its  smarting  rage. 

"  Well,  I'm  doing  my  best;  and  perhaps  when  the  folly 
is  all  out  we'll  come  to  the  revelations  of  the  Beast." 

There  was  a  silence,  in  which  the  gross  impostor 
shifted  heavily  in  his  seat,  while  a  hand  twitched  across 
the  mouth  and  then  caught  at  the  breast  of  the  thread- 
bare black  coat  abstractedly. 

Rawley  leaned  forward,  one  elbow  on  a  knee,  the  che- 
root in  his  fingers.  He  spoke  almost  confidentially, 
as  to  some  ignorant  and  misguided  savage — as  he  had 
talked  to  Indian  chiefs  in  his  time  when  searching  for 
the  truth  regarding  some  crime. 

"  I've  had  a  lot  of  revelations  in  my  time.  A  lawyer 
and  a  doctor  always  do.  And  though  there  are  folks 
who  say  I'm  no  lawyer,  as  there  are  those  who  say  with 
greater  truth  that  you're  no  doctor,  speaking  technically, 
we've  both  had  'revelations.'  You've  seen  a  lot  that's 
seamy,  and  so  have  I.  You're  pretty  seamy  yourself. 
In  fact,  you're  as  bad  a  man  as  ever  saved  lives — 
and  lost  them.  You've  had  a  long  tether,  and  you've 
swung  on  it — swung  wide.  But  you've  had  a  lot  of  luck 
that  you  haven't  swung  high,  too." 

He  paused  and  flicked  away  the  ash  from  his  cheroot, 
while  the  figure  before  him  swayed  animal-like  from 
side  to  side,  muttering. 

345 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

"  You've  got  brains,  a  great  lot  of  brains  of  a  kind — 
however  you  came  by  them,"  Rawley  continued;  "and 
you've  kept  a  lot  of  people  in  the  West  from  passing 
in  their  checks  before  their  time.  You've  rooked  'em, 
chiselled  'em  out  of  a  lot  of  cash,  too.  There  was  old 
Lamson — fifteen  hundred  for  the  goitre  on  his  neck; 
and  Mrs.  Gilligan  for  the  cancer — two  thousand,  wasn't 
it  ?  '  Tincture  of  Lebanon  Leaves '  you  called  the  medi- 
cine, didn't  you  ?  You  must  have  made  fifty  thousand 
or  so  in  the  last  ten  years." 

"What  I've  made  I'll  keep,"  was  the  guttural  answer, 
and  the  talon-like  fingers  clawed  the  table, 

"  You've  made  people  pay  high  for  curing  them,  saving 
them  sometimes;  but  you  haven't  paid  me  high  for 
saving  you  in  the  courts;  and  there's  one  case  that  you 
haven't  paid  me  for  at  all.  That  was  when  the  patient 
died — and  you  didn't." 

The  face  of  the  old  man  became  mottled  with  a  sud- 
den fear,  but  he  jerked  it  forward  once  or  twice  with 
an  effort  at  self-control.  Presently  he  steadied  to  the 
ordeal  of  suspense,  while  he  kept  saying  to  himself, 
"What  does  he  know — what — which?" 

"  Malpractice  resulting  in  death — that  was  poor  Jim- 
my Tearle;  and  something  else  resulting  in  death — that 
was  the  switchman's  wife.  And  the  law  is  hard  in  the 
West  where  a  woman's  in  the  case — quick  and  hard. 
Yes,  you've  swung  wide  on  your  tether;  look  out  that 
you  don't  swing  high,  old  man." 

"You  can  prove  nothing;  it's  bluff!"  came  the  reply 
in  a  tone  of  malice  and  of  fear. 

"You  forget.  I  was  your  lawyer  in  Jimmy  Tearle 's 
case,  and  a  letter's  been  found  written  by  the  switch- 
man's wife  to  her  husband.  It  reached  me  the  night  he 
was  killed  by  the  avalanche.  It  was  handed  over  to 
me  by  the  post-office,  as  the  lawyer  acting  for  the  rel- 
atives.   I've  read  it.     I've  got  it.    It  gives  you  away." 

346 


AS    DEEP    AS    THE    SEA 

"  I  wasn't  alone."  Fear  had  now  disappeared,  and  the 
old  man  was  fighting. 

"No,  you  weren't  alone;  and  if  the  switchman  and  the 
switchman's  wife  weren't  dead  and  out  of  it  all,  and  if 
the  other  man  that  didn't  matter  any  more  than  you 
wasn't  alive  and  hadn't  a  family  that  does  matter,  I 
wouldn't  be  asking  you  peaceably  for  two  thousand 
dollars  as  my  fee  for  getting  you  off  two  cases  that 
might  have  sent  you  to  prison  for  twenty  years,  or, 
maybe,  hung  you  to  the  nearest  tree." 

The  heavy  body  pulled  itself  together,  the  hands 
clinched.     "Blackmail — you  think  I'll  stand  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  will.  I  want  two  thousand  dollars 
to  help  a  friend  in  a  hole,  and  I  mean  to  have  it,  if  you 
think  your  neck's  worth  it." 

Teeth,  wonderfully  white,  showed  through  the  shaggy 
beard.  "  If  I  had  to  go  to  prison — or  swing,  as  you  say 
— do  you  think  I'd  go  with  my  mouth  shut?  I'd  not 
pay  up  alone.  The  West  would  crack — holy  Heaven, 
1  know  enough  to  make  it  sick.  Go  on  and  see!  I've 
got  the  West  in  my  hand."  He  opened  and  shut  his 
fingers  with  a  grimace  of  cruelty  which  shook  Rawley  in 
spite  of  himself. 

Rawley  had  trusted  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment; 
he  had  had  no  clearly  defined  plan;  he  had  believed 
that  he  could  frighten  the  old  man,  and  by  force  of  will 
bend  him  to  his  purposes.  It  had  all  been  more  difficult 
than  he  had  expected.  He  kept  cool,  imperturbable, 
and  determined,  however.  He  knew  that  what  the  old 
quack  said  was  true — the  West  might  shake  with  scandal 
concerning  a  few  who,  no  doubt,  in  remorse  and  secret 
fear,  had  more  than  paid  the  penalty  of  their  offences. 
But  he  thought  of  Di  Welldon  and  of  her  criminal 
brother,  and  every  nerve,  every  faculty,  was  screwed 
to  its  utmost  limit  of  endurance  and  capacity. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  gave  a  new  turn  to  the  event. 

347 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

He  got  up  and,  rummaging  in  an  old  box,  drew  out  a 
dice-box.  Rattling  the  dice,  he  threw  them  out  on  the 
table  before  him,  a  strange,  excited  look  crossing  his 
face. 

"Play  for  it,"  he  said,  in  a  harsh,  croaking  voice. 
"  Play  for  the  two  thousand.  Win  it,  if  you  can.  You 
want  it  bad.  I  want  to  keep  it  bad.  It's  nice  to  have; 
it  makes  a  man  feel  warm — money  does.  I'd  sleep  in 
ten-dollar  bills,  I'd  have  my  clothes  made  of  them,  if  I 
could;  I'd  have  my  house  papered  with  them;  I'd  eat 
'em.  Oh,  I  know,  I  know  about  you — and  her— Diana 
Welldon!  You've  sworn  off  gambling,  and  you've  kept 
your  pledge  for  near  a  year.  Well,  it's  twenty  years 
since  I  gambled — twenty  years.  I  gambled  with  these 
then."  He  shook  the  dice  in  the  box.  "I  gambled 
everything  I  had  away — more  than  two  thousand  dollars 
— more  than  two  thousand  dollars."  He  laughed  a  raw, 
mirthless  laugh.  "  Well,  you're  the  greatest  gambler  in 
the  West.  So  was  I — in  the  East.  It  pulverized  me  at 
last,  when  I'd  nothing  left — and  drink,  drink,  drink.  I 
gave  up  both  one  night  and  came  out  West.  I  started 
doctoring  here.  I've  got  money,  plenty  of  money — 
medicine,  mines,  land  got  it  for  me.  I've  been  lucky. 
Now  you  come  to  bluff  me^me !  You  don't  know  old 
Busby."  He  spat  on  the  floor.  "  I'm  not  to  be  bluffed. 
I  know  too  much.  Before  they  could  lynch  me  I'd  talk. 
But  to  play  you,  the  greatest  gambler  in  the  West, 
for  two  thousand  dollars  — -  yes,  I'd  like  the  sting  of 
it  again.  Twos,  fours,  double-sixes  —  the  gentleman's 
game!"  He  rattled  the  dice  and  threw  them  with  a 
flourish  out  on  the  table,  his  evil  face  lighting  up. 
"Come!  You  can't  have  something  for  nothing!"  he 
growled. 

As  he  spoke,  a  change  came  over  Rawley's  face.  It 
lost  its  cool  imperturbability,  it  grew  paler,  the  veins  on 
the  fine  forehead  stood  out,  a  new,  flaring  light  came 

348 


AS    DEEP    AS    THE    SEA 

into  the  eyes.  The  old  gambler's  spirit  was  alive.  But 
even  as  it  rose,  sweeping  him  into  that  area  of  fiery- 
abstraction  where  every  nerve  is  strung  to  a  fine  tension 
and  the  surrounding  world  disappears,  he  saw  the  face 
of  Diana  Welldon,  he  remembered  her  words  to  him  not 
an  hour  before,  and  the  issue  of  the  conflict,  other  con- 
siderations apart,  was  without  doubt.  But  there  was 
her  brother  and  his  certain  fate  if  the  two  thousand  dol- 
lars were  not  paid  in  by  midnight.  He  was  desperate. 
It  v/as  in  reality  for  Diana's  sake.  He  approached  the 
table,  and  his  old  calm  returned. 

"  I  have  no  money  to  play  with,"  he  said,  qviietly. 

With  a  gasp  of  satisfaction,  the  old  man  fumbled  in 
the  inside  of  his  coat  and  drew  out  layers  of  ten,  fifty, 
and  hundred  dollar  bills.  It  was  lined  with  them.  He 
passed  a  pile  over  to  Rawley — two  thousand  dollars. 
He  placed  a  similar  pile  before  himself. 

As  Rawley  laid  his  hand  on  the  bills,  the  thought 
rushed  through  his  mind,  "You  have  it — keep  it!" 
but  he  put  it  away  from  him.  With  a  gentleman  he 
might  have  done  it,  with  this  man  before  him  it  was 
impossible.  He  must  take  his  chances;  and  it  was  the 
only  chance  in  which  he  had  hope  now,  unless  he  appealed 
for  humanity's  sake,  for  the  girl's  sake,  and  told  the 
real  truth.  It  might  avail.  Well,  that  would  be  the 
last  resort. 

"For  small  stakes?"  said  the  grimy  quack,  in  a  gloat- 
ing voice. 

Rawley  nodded,  and  then  added:  "We  stop  at  eleven 
o'clock,  unless  I've  lost  or  won  all  before  that." 

"And  stake  what's  left  on  the  last  throw?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  in  which  Rawley 
seemed  to  grow  older,  and  a  set  look  came  to  his  mouth 
— a  broken  pledge,  no  matter  what  the  cause,  brings 
heavy  penalties  to  the  honest  mind.     He  shut  his  eyes 

349 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

for  an  instant,  and,  when  he  opened  them,  he  saw  that 
his  fellow-gambler  was  watching  him  with  an  enig- 
matical and  furtive  smile.  Did  this  Caliban  have  some 
understanding  of  what  was  at  stake  in  his  heart  and 
soul? 

"Play!"  Rawley  said,  sharply,  and  was  himself  again. 

For  hour  after  hour  there  was  scarce  a  sound,  save 
the  rattle  of  the  dice  and  an  occasional  exclamation 
from  the  old  man  as  he  threw  a  double-six.  As  dusk 
fell,  the  door  had  been  shut  and  a  lighted  lantern  was 
hung  over  their  heads. 

Fortune  had  fluctuated.  Once  the  old  man's  pile 
had  diminished  to  two  notes,  then  the  luck  had  changed 
and  his  pile  grew  larger;  then  fell  again;  but,  as  the 
hands  of  the  clock  on  the  wall  above  the  blue  medicine 
bottles  reached  a  quarter  to  eleven,  it  increased  steadily 
throw  after  throw. 

Now  the  player's  fever  was  in  Rawley's  eyes.  His 
face  was  deadly  pale,  but  his  hand  threw  steadily, 
calmly,  almost  negligently,  as  it  might  seem.  All  at 
once,  at  eight  minutes  to  eleven,  the  luck  turned  in  his 
favor,  and  his  pile  mounted  again.  Time  after  time 
he  dropped  double-sixes.  It  was  almost  uncanny.  He 
seemed  to  see  the  dice  in  the  box,  and  his  hand  threw 
them  out  with  the  precision  of  a  machine.  Long  af- 
terward he  had  this  vivid  illusion  that  he  could  see 
the  dice  in  the  box.  As  the  clock  was  about  to  strike 
eleven  he  had  before  him  three  thousand  eight  hundred 
dollars.     It  was  his  throw. 

"Two  hundred,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  and  threw. 
He  won. 

With  a  gasp  of  relief,  he  got  to  his  feet,  the  money 
in  his  hand.  He  stepped  backward  from  the  table, 
then  staggered,  and  a  faintness  passed  over  him.  He 
had  sat  so  long  without  moving  that  his  legs  bent  under 
him.     There  was  a  pail  of  water  with  a  dipper  in  it  on 

350 


AS    DEEP    AS    THE    SEA 

a  bench.     He  caught  up  a  dipperful  of  water,  drank  it 
empty,  and  let  it  fall  in  the  pail  again  with  a  clatter. 

"Dan,"  he  said,  abstractedly — "Dan,  you're  all  safe 
now." 

Then  he  Seemed  to  wake,  as  from  a  dream,  and 
looked  at  the  man  at  the  table.  Busby  was  leaning  on 
it  with  both  hands,  and  staring  at  Rawley  like  some 
animal  jaded  and  beaten  from  pursuit.  Rawley  walked 
back  to  the  table  and  laid  down  two  thousand  dollars. 

"I  only  wanted  two  thousand,"  he  said,  and  put  the 
other  two  thousand  in  his  pocket. 

The  evil  eyes  gloated,  the  long  fingers  clutched  the 
pile  and  swept  it  into  a  great  inside  pocket.  Then  the 
shaggy  head  bent  forward. 

"  You  said  it  was  for  Dan,"  he  said — "  Dan  Welldon  ?" 

Rawley  hesitated.  "What  is  that  to  you?"  he  re- 
plied, at  last. 

With  a  sudden  impulse  the  old  impostor  lurched 
round,  opened  a  box,  drew  out  a  roll,  and  threw  it  on 
the  table. 

"  It's  got  to  be  known  sometime,"  he  said,  "and  you'll 
be  my  lawyer  when  I'm  put  into  the  ground — you're 
clever.  They  call  me  a  quack.  Malpractice  —  bah ! 
There's  my  diploma  —  James  Clifton  Welldon.  Right 
enough,  isn't  it?" 

Rawley  was  petrified.  He  knew  the  forgotten  story 
of  James  Clifton  Welldon,  the  specialist,  turned  gam- 
bler, who  had  almost  ruined  his  own  brother — the  father 
of  Dan  and  Diana — at  cards  and  dice,  and  had  then 
ruined  himself  and  disappeared.  Here,  where  his  broth- 
er had  iltied,  he  had  come  years  ago  and  practised  medi- 
cine as  a  quack. 

"Oh,  there's  plenty  of  proof,  if  it's  wanted!"  he  said. 
"I've  got  it  here."  He  tapped  the  box  behind  him. 
"Why  did  I  do  it?  Because  it's  my  way.  And  you're 
going  to  marry  my  niece,  and  '11  have  it  all  some  day. 

351 


NORTHERN    LIGHTS 

But  not  till  I've  finished  with  it — not  unless  you  win 
it  from  me  at  dice  or  cards.  .  .  .  But  no" — something 
human  came  into  the  old,  degenerate  face — "  no  more 
gambling  for  the  man  that's  to  marry  Diana.  There's 
a  wonder  and  a  beauty!"  He  chuckled  to  himself. 
"  She'll  be  rich  when  I've  done  with  it.  You're  a  lucky 
man — ay,  you're  lucky." 

Rawley  was  about  to  tell  the  old  man  what  the  two 
thousand  dollars  was  for,  but  a  fresh  wave  of  repugnance 
passed  over  him,  and,  hastily  drinking  another  dipper- 
ful  of  water,  he  opened  the  door.  He  looked  back. 
The  old  man  was  crouching  forward,  lapping  milk  from 
the  great  bowl,  his  beard  dripping.  In  disgust  he  swung 
round  again.     The  fresh,  clear  air  caught  his  face. 

With  a  gasp  of  relief  he  stepped  out  into  the  night, 
closing  the  door  behind  him. 


i 


THE    END 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 

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